Motor Oil and Six Strings
by quoth-the-pigeon
Summary: " "Don't you know that pissing a woman off is like admitting yourself to Bedlam?" Especially the sister of the mafia boss, Francis added silently to himself." FrUK. Complete.
1. The Devil of Wall Street

_Hello readers! This is a new short story I'm working on for fun and thought I'd try it out. I hope you like it, and please review!_

__Chris_

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**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part One–

_In which a rabbit is eaten_

The restaurant was actually quite beautiful. There was dim lighting made by the soft candles on the cloth covered tables, there was an easy going quartet playing in corner of the room, and the food was exquisite. Francis looked bored however as the woman sitting across from him cut into her rabbit while still talking to him.

He tuned her words out, despite the shimmer in her voice as she explained some of the preparations for their wedding day – a day only three weeks away. Despite his face maintaining the appearance of interest, his eyes were glazed and he took a sip of the old world style Pinot Noir, the silky wine accompanying his lamb and sautéed mushrooms perfectly.

His fiancée seemed to pick up finally that he was not paying full attention to her and she cocked her head slightly, thick black hair rolling down olive toned skin. Her dark green eyes narrowed as a pout filled her red painted lips. "_Amore_," she said in a purr that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "Francis, darling, what ever is the matter? You seem so," she paused and her painted lips fell into a line, "quiet."

Francis forced a smile to his lips, but it faltered under her narrow gaze. He shook his head, golden hair bobbing gently with the motion. He supposed it was time to tell her. "Liviana," He put down his glass of wine and folded his hands on top of the tablecloth. While he looked into her dark eyes, their waiter came about and stopped in front of their table.

"Can I take your plate away, madam?"

The Frenchman flickered his eyes to see the waiter standing in front of them. He was impeccably dressed, but his hair looked as though he had lost a fight with a pair of sheers. The thing he noticed most, other then his bright green eyes and frown, was the massive eyebrows of the top of his head. It added a charm to the man's persona and he ended up smiling at him, nodding that he could take the plates away.

The waiter looked angry, though he seemed to try to be hiding it behind a very brittle smile. Francis continued to watch the waiter walk away as he took their plates to the kitchen. He turned to his fiancée after she took a sip of her Chardonnay and frowned.

"Honestly, some men need a woman to tell them to get waxed. Did you see his eyebrows?" She scoffed and looked to the dark windows outside. "Terrible."

An angry sort of hum took over Francis' body. He really hated when Liviana would act like that. He reminded himself it was only a glimpse of the grit under her beautiful skin and the businessman shook his head. "Please Liviana, be kind."

She raised her sculpted brow and took a long sip of her wine in silence. A tense moment of passed through them–Liviana staying as still and cold as the tundra and Francis as quiet as growing grass.

Their waiter came back again, his gaze darker then before and Francis noticed how he pulled on his cuff to cover his wrist more. "Can I interest you in dessert tonight? Our specials are a caramel crème brûlée, cinnamon apple tarte tartin, baked Alaska, and sfogliatelle with a side of vanilla bean gelato." He stopped and forced another bitter and angry smile appear on his face as he looked to Liviana.

"The sfogliatelle and two espressos." Liviana said tartly, not even bothering to look at their British waiter.

"Please," Francis added after a pause and gave his own bitter smile to the waiter.

The man nodded, as he finished jotting down the order and turned away. This time, Francis did not watch him walk away – even _if_ his slacks seemed to have a bit more lycra then most of the other waiters, and stared at his future wife. "Ma chéri, you seem bitter tonight." His hand slid across the table and into the soft hand of his fiancée. She pulled away and frowned

"You haven't been paying attention to me at all tonight." She stopped and narrowed her olive eyes. "Nor all week."

Francis frowned at her tone, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms across his broad chest. "Then it isn't because you think you might be caught?"

Liviana stilled and looked evenly into the darkening blue eyes with quiet anger. "_Scusa_?"

Blue eyes narrowed as the Frenchman sat up in his seat more. "I saw you Thursday night– and it had nothing to do with the book club like you said, _ma chéri_." No, it had not. In fact, it had a lot less to do with reading and more with repopulating.

"You were spying on me?" Liviana snapped, her fingers curling around the silverware.

"You are cheating on me." Francis' tone was cold and hurt, but the anger danced through his eyes as he stared at his fiancée. "You have been sleeping with another man, Liviana."

"And you have slept with two hundred," she said flippantly. Her fingers left the gleaming silverware to her dress strap, pulling it up fluidly.

Francis clenched his teeth angrily; he hated it when she would bring up the rumors of his promiscuity. He stopped and his fingers held the edge of the table harshly. "With my boss?" His tone was so angry it shook, and for a moment, everyone could hear why Francis Bonnefoy was named the Devil of Wall Street.

The woman looked away and then back to him. "So? We are not yet married, _Amore_. I am not shackled to monogamy yet. Why don't you forget it?" Her voice held another tone however– _leave it alone if you know what is good for you_.

Francis shook his head. "It's over Liviana. The wedding is off."

She suddenly stood up angrily. "How dare you!"

The chair flew back as he stood up to meet her wicked gaze. "No. How dare _you_. I cannot love a woman who fucks behind my back. "

The room fell silent and Francis realized that he had shouted the words. Liviana stared at him, her perfect mouth in a 'o' and then clenched it shut as angry tears filled her eyes. "You'll pay for this. My brother will–"

The blue-eyed Frenchman shook his head. "Your brother does not frighten me anymore Liviana. It is over."

She stormed out, grabbing her clutch and glaring teary daggers at the man who had shamed her in public, leaving through the glass doors quickly.

Shaking his head slowly, the 'Devil of Wall Street' straightened his chair wearily and then sat into it, reading the wine list as a distraction while the restaurant slowly began to fill with murmurs again. A few seconds went by and Francis was relieved that no pangs of sadness or the need to chase after her swelled through his chest. He had made the right choice of leaving her.

A cup rattled softly in front of him and Francis looked up in surprise to see the waiter from earlier only hand over one espresso and what looked like caramel crème brûlée.

"I didn't order this," He said, staring into the vivid green eyes of the other man.

"Yeah, well." The man paused and looked to the kitchen. "I kind of noticed the face you made at the other order, so when she left I thought you might rather like this. "

Blue eyes widened and then softened as he looked to the custard dessert in front of him. "_Merci_." He hadn't realized he had made a face at Liviana's choice– though it was true that he hated it.

The waiter rubbed the back of his head, his stance wide and body language challenging. "Blimey mate, you are awful at romance though." He raised his massive brows at him, moving his pen from his fingers to his pocket. "Don't you know that pissing a woman off is like admitting yourself to Bedlam?"

_Especially the sister of the mafia boss_, Francis added silently to himself. He finally looked up to the other man after giving the sugar a tap. "You may be right about Bedlam, but not romance."

The waiter snorted and it was Francis' turn to raise an eyebrow. It wasn't everyday that you met such a prickly and blunt waiter in a five star restaurant. "Right, and I'm the bloody queen." He stopped and then shook his head, shaggy hair tossing and falling into his eyes. "If you need anything else, flag me down."

"Actually, the check would be nice."

The waiter nodded and walked away.

The caramel custard was delicious and Francis was secretly happy the British man had brought it out to him, even if it was a little rash and pretentious in his eyes. He was finishing off his espresso ten minutes latter when a furious yell filled the whole restaurant.

"Bloody hell! Get your bleeding hands off my arse, you tosser!"

Blinking at the next few curses that would have made a sailor and his grandmother blush, Francis craned his neck to see his waiter being held back in a full nelson by a shorter woman with soft brown hair. Across from him sat a large man, his face covered in a dark black beard, on the floor with a dazed expression and a red welt crossing his face slowly.

There was a commotion and a surprisingly feminine Asian man stormed out from another door, coming over to the ruckus and stood between the fallen man and his waiter.

From the other side of the room, Francis couldn't make out the words of who he assumed to be the manager and his waiter, who had been let out of the grip by the shorter woman as soon as he had stopped swearing threats. The two men had it out for a minute until very clearly, the manager fired his waiter– causing both the British man and the woman to become tense.

His waiter suddenly laughed, a jarring reaction to being fired so publically and shook his head. He walked away to the kitchen, coming out with a helmet under his arm and began to walk to the front entrance to the ritzy restaurant.

"Arthur! Wait!" The woman from earlier chased after him and his waiter– or Arthur as he now knew, turned to her with a frown on his thin pale lips.

"Elizaveta, I'll be fine. Take my tables, right?" He paused and smiled. "Good girl. I'll call you later." And then Francis' now ex- waiter walked out.

The Frenchman looked back to where the manager was apologizing to the man from earlier and was startled when Elizaveta came to his table with the check. "What happened?" he asked, seeing the distress in her eyes.

"Some guy copped a feel on my friend's ass." She stopped and shook her head as Francis put his credit card into the black folder. Taking it, the girl continued, "Now he's fired and I have to deal with Mr. Feely-Feely." She walked away from Francis and disappeared into the crowd of the room. He looked back to the window showing the outside street, but there was no sign of the other man. Francis simply shook his head and began to sign the check when it came back.

"Well, at least you can spit in his coffee as retribution," the Frenchman said, standing up and leaving a tip on the table.

The woman turned to him, shaking her head as she cleared the table by his side. "Spit is so archaic, sir." She gave a dangerous smile, bid him 'goodnight', and walked away.

Walking to the front door, Francis pulled his coat from the rack in the front and walked out into the cool air of the night. He stared at the sky, though it was blank from the clouds that had gathered. It was too beautiful of a night to call a cab, so he decided to walk.

So Francis Bonnefoy was single once more. He laughed quietly to himself and repeated in his mind that it was for the best. He couldn't be in a union with a woman who he couldn't trust. While thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began to hum 'Clair de Lune' softly as he looked to the dark shop windows on the affluent street. He continued to hum softly, thinking to the waiter who had been fired. He wasn't sure why the man kept invading his thoughts.

It wasn't for some time that Francis realized that he was being followed. It was when he had stopped to look and peer inside the windows of a wine and cheese shop that Francis had seen the reflection of the two men standing on the other side of the street. Nonchalantly, he had turned to see another man walking behind him.

He fingered his cell phone and plucked it out of his jacket pocket, gazing at it in dismay. Apparently in his distress of breaking up with his fiancée and confronting her, he had forgotten to charge his cell phone.

In the next shop window, he saw that the men were closing in on him. He swore softly in French, and started to quicken his pace. Another burly man seemingly melted out of the shadows and suddenly stood in front of him. Francis stared at the four men now closing in on him and was forced to turn into the ally he was standing in front of.

He knew–_knew–_ from every movie and book he had ever watched and read, that turning down the dark ally was about the stupidest thing he could do. There was no choice however when he turned around, only shallowly hidden in the shadows, and saw two lead pipes, a gun, and a switch knife. "What do you want?" He asked, not even a tremble in his voice despite the thudding of his heart.

"Did 'ya hear that Jackey– he wants to know what we want!"

There was a laugh and the tallest man holding a pipe came closer as he tapped it. "Hmm. Maybe the fact that you dropped the princess' hand in marriage, does that make it clear to you?" There was more laughter and Francis stilled.

He glanced around feverishly for something, and finally lunged for a piece of plywood resting against the wall. He held it out angrily, daring any of them to come close. "I don't want any trouble," was all he said as he changed his stance into a familiar defense used in fencing.

The man with the pipe came forward and just as Francis was about to lob the wood into his fragile ribcage, there was a sudden angry rumble that deafened their ears and a bright light filled their eyes. A motorcycle suddenly screamed to a halt and Francis was suddenly behind a cobalt Kawasaki Ninja 250. The bike revved angrily as the rider turned to look at Francis.

Taking his chances, he leapt onto the bike, holding on tightly to the rider as the bike leapt in fury, nearly running over the taller man with the pipe. They went to serpentine as a shot rang out and Francis saw a spark as it hit a metal grate. They made it to the road and the rider forced the bike to an insane speed, leaning down and swerving in and out of the cars.

Francis was happy that he hadn't been shot in the back, but he also didn't want to die in an accident, so he held on tighter and shut his eyes as they nearly slammed into a city bus.

Three minutes, twenty nine seconds, and two red lights later, the Frenchman opened his blue eyes as they slowly came to a stop in front a parking lot. It looked out over the Hudson Bay and after taking a second to see the black water, he slithered off the bike and listened as the bike's noise died and the rider slammed the kickstand down, his feet touching the ground as he took off his helmet.

Francis looked back to the black water ferrying the lights of the city and then turned back to thank the rider, but became silent as he stared into intense green eyes.

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_Ahaha, can you tell I know nothing about motorcycles? I tried my best, give me tips if you can! _


	2. Deadly De Luca

Hello all! Thank you for all your awesome responses! I hope that the next chapter wont disappoint you all.

_Chris

*Note- um, Arthur has a bit of a foul mouth, so I'll add an explicit notice.

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**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Two–

_In which there is a photograph_

Francis continued to stare in silence at the man on the bike. He tucked the helmet under his arm and shook his head gently, sending sandy hair from being pressed flat by the helmet and back to a normal volume. Green eyes continued to stare right back to the Frenchman, glittering in the street light a few feet away. His face was flushed and a wicked grin threatened to tug his lips. He looked like Mars coming back from a glorious campaign.

Clearing his throat, Francis shifted slightly and rubbed his forearm. "Thank you…Arthur wasn't it?"

The Briton nodded, getting off his bike and a grin finally filled his face. It showed his teeth and for some reason reminded him of a lion. Arthur walked past him, coming to lean against the railing that barred cars from falling into the bay. It was also farther away from the light and the once waiter gave him a curious look. "So, how did you manage to fuck the De Luca family into having their four top goons try to knock you off?"

Francis blinked, for a second not understanding what he had just said. He finally sighed. "I broke off the engagement with the De Luca's head's sister." Francis paused and looked to his hands. "At least I think that's it."

"Fuck me! You can't be serious!" Francis stared at the unemployed British waiter as he started to laugh hysterically. "You managed to date bitchzillia?" He was holding his sides from laughing and still Francis's brain could not come up with the appropriate response. The man stopped laughing and patted Francis' shoulder while chuckling, "I'm impressed. And here I thought you were some git who couldn't make his payments on time."

Turning his blue eyes to green again, Francis furrowed his brow slightly in thought. "How do you know about the De Luca family and," he paused a smile coming to his face, "as you said so eloquently – 'bitchzilla'?"

Arthur continued with a feral grin. "Ah. That's easy. I worked for their rival family for a couple of years."

"The Vargas brothers?"

"Yep. Those two barmpots were something else." Arthur leaned back against the barrier, folding his hands across his chest. "So, why date the De Luca princess and then dump her?" He fished something from his pocket and Francis saw the click of the lighter before he could make out the cigarette in the dark.

"Ah, that is easy. She was having an affair." There was no pang of sadness towards no longer having Liviana in his life, and he wondered when exactly he had stopped loving the beautiful Italian woman.

Arthur studied him in silence as he blew out the light grey smoke from his mouth. He took another drag and contemplated the dark inky water of the Hudson. The lights almost looked like the glow of fairies dancing across the water and he shook his head. "You know that you won't be safe here for a while."

With a nod Francis took to staring in the opposite direction of Arthur, looking at the blue sports bike under the halo of yellow artificial light instead. "I suppose that is true. _Merde_, I didn't think something like this would happen."

Arthur swung another burning look at the French businessman and then looked to the bank night sky, letting a cloud of dark grey smoke plume from his scowling lips. "Look, I have a gig in Buffalo I'm getting to. You can hitch a ride if you want."

Startled out of his thoughts of his ex fiancée, Francis turned his wide ocean eyes to make sure the Briton hadn't sprouted a head. "_Excusez moi_? I don't think I heard you say that right." When all he got was a glower from Arthur, Francis jolted back slightly. "Sorry, but why do you care so much?"

Arthur shrugged. "I may not work for the Vargas any more, but I still hate the bloody family." He gave another shrug as he puffed another plume of smoke out. "I'll take any opportunity to fuck with them. Or maybe I'm just trying to get in my good deed of the year."

"Isn't the phrase 'good deed of the day'?"

Arthur snorted. "We can't all be saints Mr…"

"Bonnefoy. Francis Bonnefoy."

"The Devil of Wall Street? The man who fucked a thousand men blind?"

Francis bristled at that. "I am in no such way as promiscuous as those rumors."

There was another snort of disbelief from the Briton. "I was talking about out of their money, eejit. We would have met already if it was the other." He took one last drag from the cigarette and then flicked the butt to the ground, crushing it under his heel.

For some reason there was a blush on the Frenchman's face and he cleared his throat deftly. "Ah. I see. Well, tell me Arthur. When can we leave?" Francis could not believe he was going to do this. Then again, right now anything was better then being caught by the wrathful De Luca family.

"Tomorrow morning. You can crash at my flat until then. I have no doubt those brutes will be swarming your home already."

"Hm. Then I suppose there will be no possibility of being able to change into better clothes or take my toothbrush at least."

"Not unless you want a bullet in the head."

And Francis did not, so he nodded to the crude man. "Can I at least get to an ATM? Otherwise any spending will be tracked by my credit card."

"Sure." Arthur stood up fully, raking his hand through his hair.

Francis was watching the movement and caught a glimpse of dark and swollen blue skin on his wrist. "Are you alright?" he asked, more from curiosity then concern.

"Hmm?" Arthur looked confused for a second and then brought his hand down, the fabric of his sleeve covering the bruise. "Just a rough night," he answered cryptically and started to walk back to his bike.

Francis followed behind, praying to the non-existent stars that he made it out of this adventure alive.

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Francis had managed to withdraw as much as he could from the ATM and held it in his wallet. After darting through traffic, they came to a graffiti filled neighborhood and came to a stop. Francis looked around slightly nervous, not really used to being in neighborhood like this since his days as a college student. "Nice place?" he offered as Arthur placed his bike in a padlocked shed and watched as the man laughed, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Right." He walked up a set of deteriorating stone steps and began to unlock a chipped red door that had a garble of black spray painted letters on it. He tried to shove the door open, but it wouldn't budge. He swore loudly and started to bang on the door. "Elizaveta! Open the dead bolt!" the Briton paused, waiting for a sound and kicked t the door angrily. "I don't care if you two are at it like rabbits! Open the bloody door!"

There was a scuffling from inside and the waitress from earlier opened the door as the lock was slid a way. Her face was flushed and a strap from her camisole was falling down her shoulder. "Arthur Kirkland! How many times do I have to…" she trailed off as she caught sight finally of the taller man behind him. She gave an 'eep' and slammed the door shut.

Arthur slammed his fist into the door again as scuffling could be heard from within. "Elizaveta!"

There was a sound of a window sliding open with a bang and suddenly a neighbor from across the street began yelling. "Boy! Shut yo mouth! It's twelve-fucking-thirty!"

The Briton spun around angrily, about to snap at the man, and the door opened again. Elizaveta's hair was tamed down and she had another shirt over her camisole. She moved to the side as Arthur stormed in and gave a curious glance to Francis.

"Arthur?" she hissed.

"De Luca," was all Arthur offered as he slipped his shoes off and placed his helmet and keys on a table.

Francis noticed how she went still and then shook her head. She walked away to a brightly lit room, which Francis assumed was the living room.

Arthur led him inside to see Elizaveta cuddling against a man who had turned his head to look at the ceiling in apparent frustration. "Francis, these are two of my flat mates, Elizaveta and her husband Roderich. Love birds, this is Francis."

Roderich looked up and gave a typical smile for 'hello' and Elizaveta continued to stare at the Frenchman, distrust visible in her eyes and body language.

"So what did you end up doing to the coffee?" Francis asked, feeling slightly awkward by intruding on all the people.

Her distrust melted away and Francis realized that she had been trying to figure out where she knew him from. "I can't say, but it isn't pretty." She gave one gorgeous eye a wink and settled back into her husband's arms as they flipped the television on.

Arthur pulled on Francis' sleeve and began to walk to the back of the apartment. "So my usual roommate is in Tokyo visiting his brother, smarmy bastard." Francis glanced at Arthur to see a smidge of affection. Apparently the two were closer then his mouth made it sound.

They walked into a small blue room. To the Businessman's surprise though, it was immaculate and not a single grain of dust seemed to be within the room. A Union Jack was proudly displayed over one bed, while on the other side there were several photographs plastered to the wall and a small flag with the rising sun was taped to a laptop.

"Kiku shouldn't mind if you take his bed. Besides, he wont be back for about three more weeks, so it shouldn't be a problem." Arthur sat on his own bed and cocked one massive brow at Francis. "Alright? So the loo's across the hall. I'm going to make a phone call." Arthur stalked out of the room with the grace of a leopard and into the dark hall.

Francis sat on the small bed, looking to the photos on the wall. There were several with Arthur there, either scowling or a mix between a glower and a smirk. There were other photos with strangers that Francis had never seen, but he looked in curiosity to one photo at the bottom. Arthur was standing by a playground, his face in a bright and soft smile as he held a smiling blond boy on his shoulders. Francis stood up to get a closer look, the innocent and carefree smile looking so dichotomous compared to all the frowns and scowls in the other pictures and with the persona of the man he had just met.

There was the creak of a floorboard from behind and Francis managed to turn and step away from the photo just as Arthur came back in. There was something about that photo that felt too personal to delve into, so Francis merely sat on the bed again, slipping off his shoes and lying back onto the mattress.

Arthur gave him a look, but said nothing and began to pull off his shirt.

Francis looked away, giving the other man privacy as he went through his nightly routine. Instead, he found himself staring straight into the blissful look of Arthur's face with the unnamed boy and fell asleep wondering what had happened to destroy that look and replace it with his seemingly eternal scowl.

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_I'd like to to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

Ci- ;A; I told you I know nothing of bikes. I'll keep that in mind for the next time I write or if Arthur needs a new bike. So thanks for the info. :)

PrussianAwesomeness- Yes, Liviana De Luca and her family are OC's, mostly because I wanted to have free reign on their actions and backgrounds. I hope that doesn't take away from the story line.

Huai-ai- Thank you for the complement, and yes– there will be more nations that come into the story line, but not a lot, so you'll have to read to see who they are. :)

Hannaadi88-I hope that the chapter keeps your interest!


	3. The Positives

Hello once again everyone! I hope you enjoy this next installment and please review. I will not be posting anything next week since I will be away on vacation for the Fourth of July.

_Chris

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Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Three–

_In which Francis is threatened._

Francis woke up early, which wasn't unusual since normally he was at his office before seven to greet the start of a new day for the stock market. He rolled over, frowning slightly at the way his suit pants tugged at his legs and the feeling of the buttons and cuffs on his shirt pressed into his skin. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, allowing the veil of sleep to fall away and then turned to look at the other bed.

Arthur was there, sitting in a pair of shorts and a motor oil stained white shirt. He was pulling off a pair of sneakers and setting them aside as he wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead. The Briton finally pulled up, taking a sip of water from the grey water bottle on the stand next to him. Green eyes lit up at seeing the other man awake. "Sleep well?" He asked.

"Yes, thank you." He sat up off the bed, stretching out his long limbs and glanced at the window, which was still dark. "Did you go for a run?"

"5 AM run every day." Arthur said with a nod. Standing up, the Briton stretched his legs slowly.

Francis looked away from watching the shorts ride up as he bent over and to the scuffed floors. The reality of the situation suddenly set in and he rubbed tiredly at his eyes. In less then twelve hours he had broken his engagement, nearly attacked by De Luca henchmen, was being forced to flee from his home and work in fear of his own safety, had been saved by a stranger, and had been offered refuge by said stranger. Eyes, the color of budding cornflowers, looked back to the unemployed waiter once again. "Thank you, for taking me in."

Arthur shrugged, looking nonchalant as he pulled a sweater from a dresser and pulling it over his head. "Whatever. I just want to screw with the De Lucas." There was a pause and he adjusted his clothes. "How the hell did a pretty boy like you get mixed up with that trash?"

Francis raised a brow at the 'pretty boy' comment and furrowed his hands through his golden hair. "I didn't know who she was." Francis finally admitted after a minute of silence. "I saw her at a few upscale parties I attended and…I suppose one thing led to another and I started dating her. I always knew of her family and the rumors surrounding it, but I thought nothing of it since I loved her. I didn't meet her family until I met her brother during Liviana's birthday party." Francis stopped there. He really didn't want to talk about the correlation about his unofficial title and the De Luca's involvement.

Apparently that was a good enough answer for Arthur, for he nodded, taking a sip from the water bottle again. "Come on, Get to the loo and then it's time to go to the kitchen." Arthur waited for Francis to get off the bed and walk to the hall before shutting the door behind them.

Francis went to the bathroom, not wanting to look into the mirror for he knew he would look awful. He relived himself and after washing his hands, he tried to pat down a few random whisps of hair jutting about. He left the bathroom and shut the light with a click to see Arthur standing across from his with a bored expression.

The Frenchman followed behind the shorter man, looking curiously to the barren walls of the hall and then at the dim kitchen. He took a seat at the small green wooden table in the corner when Arthur motioned towards it.

"Cereal?"

"Please." Francis looked around, unsure where to keep his eyes and then looked over to the refrigerator. "Perhaps I can make breakfast?" he offered. "As a thank you for taking me in and saving me lat night."

Arthur turned around, a colorful cardboard box in his hand as he walked over and placed it on the table alongside two bowls. "Sure, but there's no food in there."

"Ah." Francis swallowed awkwardly, looking away from Arthur as he went to get milk from the otherwise bare fridge. He looked at the cereal suddenly feeling a mixture of guilt and embarrassment.

Arthur caught the look and slammed the milk down, his face set in his perpetual frown. "We're not poor, you wanker. Elizaveta didn't go grocery shopping yet."

"And whose fault is that?" Elizaveta came through the hall, patting down her silky hair while glaring at her roommate. She then turned to Francis, rolling her eyes. "The man is under the hallucination that he's a chef. He tried to make chicken soup and we had to throw out all the food because of the revolting smell."

"Hey!" Arthur slammed his had to the counter, glaring fire at the woman. "There was nothing wrong with it. Just because you two lovebirds don't know what cuisine is–"

"Chicken soup does not have fish in it!"

Amused thoroughly, but not wanting it to escalate into fight, Francis tried to make small talk. "You mention that you had a gig in Buffalo last night. Are you in a band Arthur?"

The green-eyed man sat down across from him, grabbing the Fruit Loops and pouring it into his bowl. "I'm the guitarist for a rock band. Sometimes I sing, but that's mostly left to Gilbert. He's Roderich's half cousin or some shit like that."

"Third cousin twice removed!" Elizaveta sang as she started to make coffee. Arthur made a face at her and turned back to Francis.

The Frenchman pulled the overly sugary concoction to his mouth, chewing and swallowing before talking again. "What is the name of your band?"

"The Positives." Arthur turned as Elizaveta handed him a mug of hot tea, giving her a nod in thanks.

"I'm afraid I don't know you then." Francis admitted and continued to eat the slowly swelling cereal. He looked to the brightly hued rings and thought how far off of a cry from his normal breakfast it was. Beggars couldn't be choosers though and so he took the food gratefully.

While taking a sip of the tea, Arthur snorted lightly. "At least you have the balls to admit it. Most people just dance around while saying, 'oh–it sounds familiar, maybe'." He took another bite of the cereal.

"Why The Positives?"

Elizaveta sat down next to Arthur, a cup of fresh hot coffee in her hands and ignoring the glare Arthur was sending towards it. "Because Arthur is the most sentimental child ever born."

"Shut the bloody fuck up Elizaveta." The Hungarian woman made a rude gesture back that Arthur ignored and sent Francis into quiet laughter. Arthur grumbled finally while they waited in silence for an answer and set the tea on the table. He glared again at Elizaveta and gave her a kick under the table. "It's The Positives because my best mate was HIV positive at the time."

The humor was struck down swiftly in Francis' throat. Was? "I'm sorry." He offered and looked up from the bowl of milk to see Arthur wave it off while also catching sight of Elizaveta's sad face.

"Don't be. He's alright still," he said and went to place the empty mug and bowl into the sink. Arthur continued to gaze at Francis as he leaned against the counter. Minutes of silence went by and the older man was slowly becoming unnerved.

"What?" he finally asked.

Ignoring him, Arthur looked to the melancholy woman at the table. "Do you think Roderich would mind if we kidnapped a pair of jeans and long sleeves?"

Francis waved his hand at that. "If we can stop, I can purchase a change of clothes. There is no need."

"We're not stopping and you'll be safer the sooner you get out of this hell hole of a city. "

"As long as it's not a pair he's wearing, I'm sure he wont miss them all that much." She stopped and giggled quietly. "In all honesty I think there are a few that are a little too tight for him. But that's what happens after you go from buff construction worker to piano player." Her eyes were glittering with a far off smile and neither Francis nor Arthur had to guess hard that she was dreaming about her husband's body.

"Well, thank you then. You have been very kind to me."

"That's because of the De Luca's, if I have to remind you yet again." Arthur growled, his green eyes looking venomous.

"You said that last night…Arthur are you working for the Vargas again?" both men looked to the petite woman as seemingly invisible hackles began to rise. There was a sudden wave of anger flowing from her and Francis briefly wondered if she had a past connection to Medusa.

"And not let you in on it? Please. Feliciano would pester me until you came." Arthur didn't even look at her and rather drew pictures from a splotch of water on the counter.

Francis watched in wonder as she suddenly calmed down, returning to her cooling coffee. "Alright." Francis suddenly realized that Elizaveta was also part of the Vargas group. He was suddenly starting to wonder just how much of Manhattan was connected to the mafia. "Hmm. Well, let me go see if I can find some clothes. Don't worry Francis. As long as you are pissing off the De Lucas, any one connected to the Vargas will help you." She gave a charming smile and glided out of the kitchen.

Francis watched her go and then turned to Arthur. "The Vargas sure hate the De Lucas, don't they?"

"As much as the Montagues and the Capulets." Arthur chuckled grimly at that. "I'm surprised you don't know that. After all, you were scheduled to become one, weren't you?" sauntering over, the short sandy blonde sat back in the chair across from Francis.

"You make it sound like I was to be executed," the Frenchman grumbled and then looked at him curiously as he cocked his head. "I didn't take you as a learned man, no offense intended."

Arthur stood up and started to walk to the hall, though Francis swore he saw a tick forming in the other man's eye. "I took a year of college." He then disappeared into the shadows of the house.

The rest of the house was quiet and Francis leaned back against the chair as he stretched his limbs again. He rolled his neck, wincing at the crick in his neck. Elizaveta came back in, holding a thick navy blue sweater and a pair of worn jeans. She smiled as she held the folded clothes to him and then sat down, the expression switching to a serious glance.

"So you'll be traveling with Arthur to Buffalo, right?"

"That's right."

A dangerous glint filed the calm eyes and she leaned forward. "Just understand this, Mr. Devil of Wall Street. If you touch him, if you hurt him in any way– I will find you." She paused and glanced to the doorway for only a second before looking back into Francis' blue eyes. "I know a pretty face like that couldn't harbor any evil, so I'll just leave it at that."

Francis cleared his throat after the Hungarian woman patted his cheek and stood up, her dark green skirt twirling slightly. "I have no intention of doing –" he was cut off as she looked over her shoulder and gave a sly smile.

"Just letting you know." She rounded the corner just as Arthur came to the kitchen, a strange look on his face as he looked to Francis. He had changed into Black tee shirt that said 'The Positives' in blood red on it. He was also wearing a pair of jeans and black boots. In his arms was a red and black jacket and his muscles rippled as he shifted it slightly. Arthur turned his bright eyes to the clothes on the table.

"Looks like Elizaveta gave you top clothes. Better change into them because we're leaving soon." Outside the window, the dawn was breaking slowly.

"That looks like it must hurt." Francis admitted while seeing the dark blue, purple and red bruise on his wrist again.

Arthur raised his brown and shrugged. "It's not too bad. Now get your arse up so we can leave."

Francis returned to the bathroom, stripping out of the wrinkled suit and dress shirt. He pulled on the jeans and sweater, frowning slightly as the wool itched his skin. Splashing some cold water onto his face, Francis then looked into the mirror, flinching back at seeing the weary face. _Ah well_, he thought lightly, _it could always be worse_. Somehow those words had become a mantra and he stepped out, holding the folded and soiled clothes as he walked back to the kitchen.

Roderich was in there finally, boiling an egg while buttering a slice of sunflower bread. He turned around, a look of surprise crossing his features. "Huh. I like your clothes." He turned around to continue cooking.

Francis had no words to say and so he kept his mouth shut. Elizaveta was sitting at the table once more, her eyes smiling as she sipped at her coffee. Arthur was also sitting at the table, looking at the screen of his phone. Looking up, he nodded. "Alright. Here's you helmet. Let's get going."

Francis stared at the protection being offered. "What? I couldn't possibly take Elizaveta's helmet."

The said woman was cracking up, holding her stomach after nearly spitting out the coffee. Arthur's face as a dangerous hue of scarlet as Roderich also joined in with the laughter. Francis looked in confusion between the three faces.

"That–That isn't mine." She continued to laugh and took a deep breath to calm herself as Arthur seemed to be emitting a dangerous aura. "That's Arthur's."

Francis looked back to the electric green helmet with rabbits hopping about. Suddenly, he could no longer hold in the laugh and joined in with the married couple.

Arthur's face was deeply red while spluttering and Francis laughed more then he could remember in several months.

This was going to be an _interesting_ adventure.

* * *

So after this the road trip starts to Buffalo. I will be having a a lot of fun writing this. :) Review if you enjoyed, or if you have any criticisms. Thanks!

_I'd like to to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

Hannaadi88- Thanks for the review and more information about the involvement with the mafia for both Arthur and Francis will be explained in more depth in future chapters.

PrussianAwesomness-Hope you liked it and thanks for the review!

AnaTheAwesome- I'm happy you like the story. :)

Marinoa-I hope your interests will be kept.

Thanks again everyone!

*ps. Fruit Loops are totally a manly cereal. psh.


	4. De Luca and Braginski

Hey everyone! I hope you are all well and here is another chapter for MOSS, hope you enjoy. :)

_Chris

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**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Four–

_In which the American Dream is mentioned_

"Didn't you need your guitar?"

Arthur looked up from the pavement and cobalt bike and stared at Francis blankly for a second. Then after another moment the Briton shook his head and put a hand on his bike. "No, Gilbert and our other band mate, Antonio, took everything up the night before." Green eyes turned away and the shorter man rolled his neck languidly. "Probably getting drunk right now, those fuckers."

Francis scratched at the sweater, frowning at how the material pulled at the hair on his chest and arms. "At ten in the morning?" he questioned. Arthur gave him a look and Francis smiled slightly.

Stretching his back, a soft groan fell from Francis' lips. They had already been on the bike for over an hour and thankfully they had stopped off of I-80 to rest for a bit. Francis already felt bowlegged from the ride and sighed a little at realizing there was at least five more hours to go.

Now they were just off the interstate and heading into a rest stop. The Frenchman looked at all the fine choices for a snack to eat. McDonalds, Sabarro, Dunkin' Donuts or Kentucky Fried Chicken. His arteries were already clogging. "So why did you stay behind, if you don't mind me asking?"

Arthur pulled the glass door into the rest stop open, heated air pooling around them as they walked inside to the tiled and grease haven room. "I had some business to take care of." He shrugged, not looking to Francis.

Francis glanced over at the other man and then looked around the room. Not many options. He glanced back to Arthur who was sitting down at a table in the common cafeteria space, next to a dusty fake fichus. Coming to a stop at the edge of the table, the Frenchman continued to stand. "Since you're driving, allow me to purchase the food."

Mouth halfway in his palm, Arthur looked up to meet blue eyes. "If you want. We're stopping every hour since I doubt you'd be able to handle riding anything more then that." There was a pause and Francis had the vague feeling the other man was giving him a once-over, even if his eyes weren't moving. "I'm not really hungry right now anyway." It wasn't really much of a surprise since they had only eaten about two hours ago. Francis gave a little shrug, as though to say– what do you want? Arthur continued to give him a bored gaze, voice almost monotonous. "Something to drink then, I suppose."

"Alright then. Anything in particular?"

With a lazy smile, Arthur turned away. "Surprise me, Mr. Wall Street."

With a final nod, Francis began to look over the limited choices. He finally made his way through the crowd and came to a stop in front of the coffee chain. Three people ahead was the cashier, stuck in a tan uniform and visor over her head with the bright pink and orange D's emblazoned on it. Francis ran lithe fingers through his hair, sending back the volume the bunny helmet had sucked away.

A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of the helmet and he shook his head, shuffling forward as the line moved. He couldn't really figure Arthur out. And in turn there was the photo he had seen earlier that was still nagging at his mind and the fact that he was being dragged across the state of New York by an unemployed waiter who used to work for the Mafia.

His life was crashing suddenly and the Frenchman stilled. His hand rested on the back of his neck, falling under golden hair as he thought of the state of his life. Here Francis was, almost twenty eight years old, a terrible and ruthless reputation, a broken engagement and running away (temporarily) from a mafia family who probably wanted nothing more then to peel the skin off his body. And he wouldn't admit it to anyone, but the only real friendship he had – something not superficial or for gain– was strained and his friend was on the other side of the globe. He frowned, thinking of the African woman who was currently sailing across the Indian Ocean to Australia.

The line moved up again and in boredom Francis looked over to where Arthur was sitting. Ocean blue eyes widened slightly when he noticed the British man wasn't sitting alone, but looked like a slightly startled cockatiel as he talked to a large chested woman sitting across from him.

It was strange to see the infallible Arthur Kirkland looking unsure and slightly fearful in the presence of a woman. She was wearing a silvery blue dress, matching the headband holding her short platinum blonde hair back. It was impossible to hear what the two were talking about over the babble of the crowded rest stop, but the woman looked near tears.

"Sir? Excuse me, sir– can I help you?"  
Startled, Francis looked at the cashier blankly. Finally his mind caught up and he apologized. Ordering an Earl Grey tea and a bottle of water, Francis tuned back to Arthur and the woman. The two were still talking and Arthur seemed a little less startled. Instead he was gazing at her almost impassively over his folded hands.

When the order came around, Francis paid with a crinkled five, pocketed the change and then started to walk back to the table. He stood a few feet away finally, unsure if he should intrude or not. At the distance he was standing, and partly hidden by the fake fichus, Francis could hear the quiet conversation.

"I know I shouldn't be intruding into your business, but I just wanted to make sure everything was alright between you two. Ivan isn't –"

"Look, Katyusha." At this Arthur patted the back of her clenched hands. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm not an innocent little child. I can handle myself and this really is between your brother and I."

Francis walked a bit closer and Katyusha dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. "I know, I know." She looked up at the proximity of Francis and her mouth turned into a small 'o'. She then turned back to Arthur, sliding up from the table and standing in front of the green-eyed man. "I see you have a friend. I'll leave now Arthur, but don't be afraid to call me if anything arises. Okay?" She sniffed tearfully and then gave a small kiss to his left cheek. "_Bud zdorov_." She gave a pat to Arthur's head, like an older sister would, and walked away. She didn't walk outside, but to the other side of the court where she joined another woman in a dark charcoal dress with the same colored hair.

Arthur was looking between fondness and concern at the other woman's retreating back and then looked up to Francis with a frown. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Not much." He gave the hot tea to the motorcyclist and rolled the water between the palms of his hands. "I suppose I shouldn't ask then?"

Arthur lounged back into the chair, holding the cup of tea and staring down into the darkening water. "I don't ask you about your fiancée."

Ah. A love matter. "Well, I may not have shown charm and elegance that night in the restaurant, but I am actually good at problems in love. So tell me Arthur, why are you letting that beautiful woman go? It looked like you even made her cry, quite ungentlemanly."

With a snort, Arthur lifted the Styrofoam cup up to his lips and look a sip of the scalding liquid. "No." there was a laugh and Francis tilted his head from the rare sound emitted from the other's lips. "You have that wrong, git. It's not a matter in love." Arthur put the cup down and looked to the dusty leaves of the fake plant. There was a pause and Arthur seemed to realize what he was saying and to whom, for he suddenly scowled and began to tap his helmet on the table. "We're not talking about this."

Seconds went by and the two men fell into silence. It went onto a suffocating presence and Francis found himself trying to fish up inane conversations. "So, how long have you been in a band?"

"This will be our sixth year together actually." Arthur took another sip and started to fiddle with the tag of the tea. "Antonio, Gilbert and I have been in this since college. Lilli joined about two years ago when we needed a bass guitarist." There was a pause and Arthur looked out the window to where his motorcycle was parked. "Her brother used to play the keyboards, but once some bum was a little too liquored up and tried to grab at her. Let's just say it's good the gun laws are a little loose here in the states, and he became our 'security'."

Francis nodded, it sounded like a motley crew for a band, but it was almost fun imagining Arthur in the front of a group like that, bringing it all together. "So since I know nothing else about you and I don't want to offend you, tell me more about The Positives."

Arthur's forest green eyes lit up– it was the only word for it as he explained the different people in his band. From Gilbert- a guitarist and the lead vocalist from what Francis could glean, Antonio– a Spanish immigrant who played the drums, and Lilli – a twenty one year old woman who looked six years younger and played the bass guitar. After one story, which Francis somehow managed to coax out from the normally sour man, about how Lilli had –to everyone disbelief –gotten into a bar fight when a woman had been more then a little bit mean to Gilbert and had gotten them thrown out.

"Why would she have done that? From what you have told me, it doesn't sound anything like her." Francis asked, but regretted it when the light slowly died from his eyes.

"Lilli is protective over people she cares for. Especially Gilbert since–" A long streak of silence passed through them and Arthur folded his cup up, long empty of the tea. "Well he's the mate I was telling you we named the band after. Over Easter last year it developed into AIDS."

Again the silence was choking and Francis looked from the tabletop to Arthur as he folded the life out of the cup. "He's alright though, and he'll probably punch you out if you try to give him any pity." Arthur dipped his head into his hands. "Why am I even talking to you about this?"

"Because you find me utterly attractive and you cannot stand to be without my presence for more then a minute." Francis joked.

Arthur grinned and finally crumpled the cup up. "Oh yes. That is the reason. How could I forget?" He shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like '_I must be crazy_'. He stood up and Francis followed next to him. "Let me ask you a question now since I've been talking all this time." The cup was thrown away and Arthur looked up slightly into Francis' face. "Do you miss your fiancée?"

Francis was slightly surprised at the question and he frowned, thinking about the question seriously. "Yes, and no." He gave a wry smile to Arthur who looked impassive. "I did love her, I thought that we would be together for a very long time. You know, the white house with the picket fence and 2.5 children running amuck with our dog. The American dream."

"The American dream." Arthur repeated, and there was a bitter edge that had seeped into the quiet words.

"But, well she cheated on me and broke my heart more then once. I suppose it wasn't meant to be. Maybe…I didn't love her enough to chase after her and amend things between us."

Watching Arthur, Francis fingered the bright green helmet in his hands. "But you can still go after that lovely lady who you were talking to earlier."

Arthur's gaze was sharp and Francis watched in interest as the bushy eyebrow-ed man scowled again. "I'm not dating Katyusha. That's not the problem." Arthur paused and tugged on the door leading outside to the parking lot. "My boyfriend, Ivan Braginski… that's the problem."

* * *

And so the road trip has begun. I have to admit, this story is evolving into something more then I had planned. _Interesting_ *rubs invisible goatee*

_I'd like to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

_Hannaadi88- I'm glad you liked the helmet. I could just see it on Arthur..._

_PrussianAwesomeness- As was explained in this chapter, yes Gilbert does indeed have AIDS. _

_Marinoa- I'm glad you like the story :)_

_Serene528moon- I figured a bright electric green helmet with bunnies jumping around would look a little girly for someone like Arthur to be wearing. _

_AnaTheAwesome- Thanks for the review :)_

_Tocool456- I'm glad you decided to read this...I know the summary doesn't explain a darn thing. I'm glad you like it so far though!_

_Candy4yourEYEZ- HOLY WATER WOKS JUST AS WELL :D_

_Notes: For anyone who is not from the Tri-State Area like I..._

* _Bud zdorov-See you later in Ukrainian ( I hope?)_

_*I-80 is an Interstate that goes from New Jersey to California. _

_*Sabarro is a pizza place, Dunkin Donuts is a coffe/ doughnut chain, Kentucky Fried Chicken sells...well fried chicken and do I have to say anything else about Micky D's ?_

_* If you want to follow on the map, they would be somewhere around East Stroudsburg, PA. I really don't know if there is a rest stop like that there, I just based it off the one off of I-95 that I use when traveling._


	5. The Generic Tanya

Hello everyone! I hope you are all well and doing fine. I hope you enjoy this update, it was awful to write for it beat me up and stole my lunch money. I can't tell if I like it or wish it was under dirt, either way it had to be written for the sake of the you all for reading!

***Foul Language Warning**

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Motor Oil and Six Strings**

-Part Five-

_In which the socks come off_

"Bloody fucking hell, I knew something like this would happen!"

Francis watched with calm eyes as Arthur kicked at the rough carpeting of the hotel lobby and stared angrily at the torrential downpour outside. It was a sheet of icy rain – too thick to even see past a few feet. The interstate had been reduced to a crawl with sickly yellow hazard lights flashing along with regular bursts of red break lights.

Arthur had pulled off the road nearly as soon as the rain had stopped, but when the storm had worsened he had dragged Francis to a hotel only a little bit away. So now Francis was standing in the lobby, soaked like a fish, and waiting for Arthur to make the call of what they should do. All he knew was that he wanted dry clothes soon.

A flash of black, gold, and green caught the businessman's attention and he watched Arthur turn away from him and then to the front desk. It took a moment of watching him converse with the pretty, but fuller figured attendant at the desk before Francis realized what was happening and strode forward.

"…There only seems to be one room available." That was the first snatch of conversation he could hear and came to a pause next to the tense and riled Briton. Resting his arm against the black laminate counter, Francis waited for the attendant– Tanya according to the glistening badge on her left breast– to continue. "I'm sorry, that's the only room we have available at the moment. Will that be suitable?" She was looking at Arthur, though when she seemed to realize that Francis was with him and both without baggage, her face tightened slightly.

Arthur turned his green eyes to Francis, his hair disheveled and wet. "They have a double we can share. As much as it irks me to think this fucking storm wont let up," he paused and let a frustrated breath go, "I don't think it will."

"So then it's best to stay the night." Francis nodded. He then looked up to Tanya and pulled out his card, ignoring the muttering from Arthur. As she took down the card information (her posture relaxing slightly at the sight of the plastic card), Francis turned to Arthur again, smiling slightly. "If you keep muttering like that people will think you're insane."

A scowl set on red lips and Arthur looked up as he rubbed at his hair, making him look like a drowned cockatiel. He was about to say something, probably unflattering Francis guessed as he watched Arthur puff his cheeks slightly, but Tanya held out two tan card keys with the number of their room.

"Room number 313. Down across the lobby and into the elevators– then a right. Have a pleasant stay." She tilted her head slightly and then turned away, going back to other matters on the hotel computer, picking up the phone as they walked away.

"Come on then." Arthur muttered stalking forward without looking to Francis and stopped in front of the elevators. Francis followed, but paused to grab two cups of coffee as Arthur waited outside of the metal doors. He popped into the elevator just before the door closed and handed a cup to Arthur. He simply sniffed it and gave Francis a dirty look.

"It's all they had. There might be some tea in the room, but at least the coffee with stave off any sickness or cold."

Arthur looked back down to the cup in his hand and eventually took a tiny sip, a grimace flew across his lips, but he continued to drink.

Francis smiled at him, secretly as the Englishman vacillated between sipping the coffee and glaring at it. The door finally pinged, then opened– freeing them from the Muzak filled confines. Secretly Francis hated hotels due to their same looking halls and doors though the whole building, for some reason it always brought up images of The Shining. He let a shudder pass through his body and then returned to looking for their room with Arthur.

It took a second to open the door since at first since Francis had inserted the key upside down. Upon opening the room up, it looked like every other moderately priced hotel chain. There were two beds, both fitted with a dark navy and green comforter, which supported a surprisingly fluffy, but stained yellow blanket at the end. There was a TV, next to the coffee pot of course, on top of a dresser. There were two light fixtures in the room, one between the beds and the other standing next to the window. It even smelled like every other hotel room, a mix of cleaning products and detergent.

Francis took a peak into the bathroom as Arthur moved to the drawn window, seeing a clean but boringly generic restroom. When he came back out, Arthur had opened the drapes and was looking at the dark grey sky. The window was dappled with water, slowly racing down the glass thanks to gravity.

Francis began to pull off his shoes, sitting on the yellow blanket while trying to keep the bed dry, fully intent on getting out of his soaked and cold clothing.

"What do you think it's like to be a rain drop?"

Francis looked up, having to push a wet lock of golden hair away from his face. Arthur looked back, apparently fully expecting an answer. He had peeled off his jacket at least, but was slowly forming a pool of water under his boots.

"I don't know. I've never really thought of it before." The Frenchman peeled off his socks, laying them over his shoes and rubbed his hands for heat. It was cool even in the room. "Lonely, I suppose."

A flash of surprise flickered over Arthur's features and he looked out at the rain again. "You can take a shower first." He sat on the radiator in the room, his shoes creating a soft 'clang' as they made contact with the thin metal, and gave a bored gaze to Francis.

"Alright." Francis dabbed at the water running down from his hair and moved to the bathroom. "Do you want a towel at least?" he asked.

"Yeah. Thanks." Arthur had pulled out his cell phone and didn't even look up when Francis tossed him a towel and caught it.

He turned back to the bathroom, closing the door and turning on the water almost immediately. The blue sweater he had been wearing might have been warm before, but with all the water logged in the threads, the piece had become as cold as ice. He peeled it off, wringing it in the sink before hanging it over the towel bar. His jeans quickly joined afterwards, paired with his folded briefs as he then hopped into the shower. The water almost felt scalding thanks to the coolness of his skin.

Francis had to jump away from the water for a moment as to not be burned by the heat and gradually re-submerged his frame into the shower spray. Not only was the hot water quickly clearing away all the cool rainwater, but it also soothed the aches from riding on the motorcycle– something he wasn't used to.

As he lathered up from one of the small plastic shampoo bottles, he wondered where they were. They had traveled for at least four hours now, having stopped to get gas, stretch, and eat. Surely they were in New York again, weren't they? Francis rinsed the suds from his hair, using the trailing foam to scrub away some of the excess oily residue of the rainwater.

Turning off the hot water, Francis stood there for a moment in the steam and then stepped out– instantly greeted by the cold and slippery tile. He grabbed a towel and rubbed off the water, then wrapped it around his waist and grabbed another small one for his hair. While standing in the steam filled room and trying to wring out more water from the barrowed pair of jeans, he could hear faint mutterings from Arthur in the other room. Francis wasn't paying attention – despite the quickly raising volume of the other man's voice. At least he wasn't until he heard Arthur yell out 'Ivan!' Remembering that name had been that of Arthur's boyfriend, as he had said earlier, Francis paused and looked to the door, as if that would help him hear more then the angry tones of Arthur's muttered words.

There was silence from the other room and Francis slowly and reluctantly went back to wringing out the barrowed clothing.

"Like I give a fuck whether or not you were drunk off your arse that night." Arthur's voice was muffled through the door, and yet Francis could clearly hear what he was saying. "Fuck you. I am not." There was another bout of silence and a sudden crash. Francis stopped coiling the clothes and looked to the door, opening it and looking out.

Arthur had taken his shirt off and draped the towel over his shoulders. However, his back was towards him as he talked on the phone. Hand balled and resting on the wall, Francis watched as his shoulders heaved gently, though rapidly. Arthur again struck the wall, looking out the window. "Belt up, Ivan. I'm not dealing with this shit any more. Fucking cocksucker. And don't call me again, or I _will_ bleeding call them." Arthur hung the phone up and tossed it to the bed. The black phone landed with a small thump on the bedding.

Francis watched Arthur's agitated posture and cleared his throat after a minute. Green eyes blazing in anger, Arthur turned to face him. "What?" Arthur snapped angrily.

"The shower is open." His words were calm and he kept the offence from being snapped at out of his tone. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Francis used the second towel to dry his hai r– watching Arthur carefully from the corner of his eye. The nearly volatile young man before him switched from pacing, to glaring out the window before finally retreating to the bathroom, not slamming the door like Francis had guessed he would.

Blue eyes watching the entryway to the bathroom, Francis waited for the water to turn on before moving to the radiator to hopefully dry out the clothes. The sweater would take a while, but maybe the jeans would dry faster. Surely there was a dryer in the hotel, but he couldn't just walk about in a towel.

The sudden ringing of a phone brought his thoughts out of his clothes, and Francis looked over to the bed to see Arthur's phone light up as the first few bars of _Lady Madonna_ began to whistle out of the tinny speaker. The name 'Ivan' flashed up on the screen and then the phone went silent. Pulling his damp hair away from his eyes, Francis went back to arranging his clothes on the radiator.

The phone rang again, the music playing loudly and the bathroom door opened. Arthur stalked forward, wrapped in one of the towels, and grabbed the phone. He then threw open the window of the hotel room, brushing against Francis to do so and chucked the small phone out of the window. Arthur snapped the window shut and Francis gazed at him bewildered while he walked back to the bathroom and shut the door.

"Well that's one way to turn off a phone." Francis muttered to the room. He looked out of the window and shook his head, seeing the shattered pieces of plastic lying on a ledge below. As he moved to the bed, sitting back down on it and resting against the headboard, the Frenchman could hear the other man moving around on the other side of the wall.

Arthur came out of the bathroom minutes later, tossing his wet clothes onto a chair back and then sat on his bed next to the window. The towel enveloped his head as he dried his hair. His movements slowed as they both sat in the quiet room until he simply let the towel hang over his head.

"You haven't said anything." Arthur muttered quietly.

Francis looked up from the sheets of his bed where he had been tracing the muted patterns. "It's not my place, is it?"

There was a hum as a reply.

"What did he do?" Francis ventured finally. "You seemed more then a little mad."

No answer. Still watching the bare back of the other man, Francis waited for a response. Finally Arthur shifted and pulled the towel off. "He got drunk, forgot his strength." That was the reply and yet Francis instinctively knew the dark mottled bruise around his wrist was included in that answer. "He's a good guy. He really is." At that Arthur turned around to face Francis. "He's a little paranoid sometimes, a little extreme, but he is a good guy."

"Everyone has faults." Francis offered. Didn't he know that too well? Liviana's angelic looking face passed through his mind, as did the memory of waking up next to her in the cool New York mornings – of kissing the soft skin of her wrist, hips and chest. He had to shake his head to remove the sudden memory and focus back on Arthur who had started talking quietly.

" …I just don't want this to be another meaningless relationship." Arthur lay down on the bed, his face contorted in his everlasting scowl.

"Arthur…" Francis started slowly, a sudden thought coming to mind. "How was it that you met his sister out on the road?"

"He probably asked her to keep track of me." Arthur continued to look up at the ceiling rather then meeting Francis' surprised looks. "Katyusha was just warning me of that. She had called me earlier that morning and asked to talk."

"He _probably _asked them to keep _track_ of you?" His voice held such incredulousness that Arthur turned to him with a raised brow. "Isn't that a little possessive?" When the Briton made no move to answer Francis continued. "You mentioned he was paranoid, but paranoid of what? You leaving him that he has his own sister follow you?"

"It's not like that." Green eyes flashed with warning. "Katyusha doesn't do anything like that, not anymore at least."

"Arthur, do you hear yourself? He has someone tracking you at all moments and you don't think that's strange at all?" Francis was sitting up a little more straight, his own brow furrowed. " That's a little more then just paranoid. That's possessive. It's unhealthy."

Arthur sat up facing him, frowning more. "You don't have to lecture me. And you wouldn't get it."

"I wouldn't get it? Oh?" Francis folded his arms, now glaring at the younger man. "Try me."

With a quickly darkening frown, Arthur started, "Yes. He's possessive. It's nothing I can't handle. I'm not some frail woman who can't defend herself. I'm not manipulated in this relationship. It's not unhealthy. I enjoy being with him as he does with me."

"But not love?"

A terse moment fell between them and Arthur bristled slightly. "Don't screw with my words."

"I'm not."

"You did. You want to know the problem? The real fucking problem?" Arthur Stood up from the bed and started to pace. Despite only wearing a towel around his waist, he looked fierce. "You have to be fucking perfect! All the time." He turned around angrily and Francis was more then surprised to see a gleam in his green eyes. Everyone is setting you up to fail because we're not '_normal'_." At that Arthur's hand sliced through the air– as though he wanted to destroy every opposition he faced and then clenched his hands until his fingers were white. " Because a homosexual couple has to be perfect. Because if a relationship isn't working out, or there's a fault in it, then everyone says– 'see there is a textbook reason why two men can't be together. _It doesn't work_'" Arthur's chest heaved angrily.

Watching passively, Francis waited for him to calm down. "Maybe it just doesn't work."

"_What_?"

Recoiling slightly, Francis realized what it might have sounded like. "I don't mean it like that I meant maybe it's just –"

"Just what?"

"Let me finish." He admonished, letting his words snap from his anger of being cut off. "Stop acting like a martyr–"

"I am not!"

"Let me finish my sentence!" Francis stood up from the bed as well. His height forced Arthur to look up at him. "Maybe it's not working out because it wasn't supposed to. Maybe it was just who the two of you are. Sometimes relations don't work. It's life. It sucks."

Arthur glared at him before moving to where his jacket was discarded, pulling out the familiar carton and a lighter. "You think you find something, someone, and when it all turns to shit you have nowhere to go" he gritted out angrily and then pulled out a small white cylinder and lit it quickly with his lighter.

"That's not good for your health." Francis said quietly.

"Yeah, and sucking cock apparently isn't good for my soul."

"Arthur what on earth is wrong with you right now?" Where was all of this coming from?

Gritting his teeth angrily, Arthur spat out, "Fuck off Francis. Just fuck off." He suddenly got up and stormed into the bathroom, re emerging seconds later with his wet clothes on and ripped open the door, stepped out of the room and slammed the door close.

Letting a frustrated shout out, Francis kicked at his shoes lying on the ground and glared out the window because _where the hell had that whole argument come from?_

Staring at his damp, but slightly dry clothes Francis decided he was not going to sit about the room and wait for Arthur to come back to the room. He grabbed his room key, and wallet. Changed into the clothes and stalked downstairs to where the bar was waiting.

* * *

So as apology for being late with the update, it is longer then usual. I was surprised none of you actually questioned how Katyusha would have met him at a highway stop, but I hope I've explained it here.

_I'd like to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

_Mirianna16- Glad you're hooked :)_

_PrussianAwesomeness- Hope you liked the chapter_

_Marinoa- I'm relieved to hear that Francis and Arthur are being portrayed correctly/ well :)_

_tocool456- Yup. Arthur and Ivan. As you can see it will equal drama. _

_liliac gurl- I'm happy to hear you like it and I hope you will continue to read. :)_


	6. Slim, Emry, Jakey and the Beatles

Hey everyone! Man, this chapter has been a thorn in my side. I must have re written this thing three or four times before I was okay with it. Sorry for the delay...I hope the update makes up for it? Rahh...sooo busy. Real life is cruel sometimes...

_Chris

***Foul Language Warning**

* * *

**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Six–

_In which Francis is hit upon_

He knew it was poison. The cool liquid burned though his veins, sending all thoughts askew and muddled any problems he could have had. Francis dipped his head into his left hand, golden hair draping past his shoulders and curtaining his view from the other patrons in the smoky bar.

"Had enough?" The voice was friendly, but Francis did not turn to look at the man who had saddled up beside him an hour ago.

"No. " The reply was curt and blue eyes shut against the light and smoke of the loud bar. Both index fingers moved to his temples and rubbed counter clockwise. He had started off with wine originally, taking a cheep Zinfandel while listening to a man who had left hours ago bemoan his fortune. Then he had moved onto whiskey, per recommendation of the man still chatting to him on his right.

He felt too warm and pushed the sleeves to his elbow, taking a sip and listening to the ice clack together. Long lithe fingers drummed a half remembered tune, placing the glass back into its ring of condensation on the counter.

"Hm. So how do you like the whiskey?"

This time Francis turned to look at the man flanking his side, gazing at the olive skin and green-eyed man. But his eyes were nowhere near the vivid and burning green like Arthur's, Francis had thought distantly. This man's were dull with drink. The friendly drinking partner had short black hair that gelled into short spikes in the front and he was fingering the rim of the glass with a carefree smile. The pad of his finger trailed over and over the glass. "It's alright, not very strong."

"Oh ho! So you want a strong drink, eh?" Rob (as he had introduced himself earlier) said. He gave the Frenchman another smile and then twisted to the bartender. "Hey! Lenny!" The man turned to scowl at Rob. "Do you have some of that special bourbon still?"

The bartender blinked for a minute at Rob, then looked to Francis. Rob had to snap his fingers before Lenny looked back. "Yes. I'll go get it." The burly man disappeared into the shadows of the bar. Francis could hear what sounded like a gruff grumble about "damn bastards." Blue eyes narrowed, but he couldn't even summon the energy to be angry. Instead, he bit the inside of his lip, mind floating.

Rob started to chat, but Francis wasn't really paying attention. His mind was more focusing on the angry little Briton who had stormed away. It was strange that Francis realized he had been hurt by Arthur's outburst, more because he was concerned over the sudden mood change and simmering anger that had been unleashed. The image of the dark bruise encircling Arthur's pale wrist flashed through his mind.

He finished his dink in a gulp, looking for a sense of oblivion at the bottom of the warped glass. It might take another bottle.

Lenny came back in, holding an unmarked bottle and poured the dark chestnut colored liquid into new glasses. "Here you go Rob. Just like you asked." Lenny walked away after that, cleaning glasses at the other end of the bar. Francis wondered how often Rob visited the bar, but he had pushed the glass to him and lifted his own. "Make a toast?"

Francis picked up the glass, lifting it in a low toast. "To simplicity," he muttered and downed the drink. He coughed up the fumes, eyes tearing slightly and glanced at Rob who was grinning, drink untouched.

"I told you it was strong, right?"

"What on earth is it?" He coughed again, this time into his hand while looking to the bottle left on the counter. "Paint thinner?"

Rob laughed and pointed at him with his pinkie, hand wrapped around the small glass. "No, ha. This is my own special blend. I call it the knock out. Like it?"

Licking his lips, Francis grabbed the bottle to pour himself another glass. The drink was strong, and it had an odd burning sensation as it filled his stomach, but it left a pleasant numb feeling. Almost like being at the edge of deep slumber. "It's interesting. So are you an amateur brewer?"

Rob laughed and watched as Francis started to take another sip of the drink. "Yeah, you could say that. I like how it feels in your system, you know?"

Humming as a response, Francis drummed the tune back into the woodwork. "It's got a nice after taste."

"So what do you do for a living Francis?"

Bourbon was normally very dry, but this blend had a sweet cloying taste hidden in it. Francis ran his tongue over his teeth and then started to lean back in his seat. The drink was so strong, he could already feel it going to his head and he rubbed once more at his brow.

"Did I tell you my name?" He could have been sure he hadn't. After all, the DeLucas were still after him.

With a laugh Rob filled his glass again. "Of course you did. Hey, you sure you can hold your drink?"

"Yes. Sorry." Francis waved his hand and looked into green eyes. He noted with a small frown how they were dark… shallow looking. Nothing like the spring colored eyes of the man he had been traveling with.

"Good, you had me worried there man. So what do you do?"

"Finance. But if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it."

Rob shrugged. "Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing. I'd rather just pass out," Francis joked, pulling down the collar to his sweater. It was starting to feel a little hot in the room.

"Ah, well this will do the job."

Francis was leaning against the counter, resting his chin in his palm and looked to the mirrored shelves that stored the verities of alcohol. He caught his warped reflection and had to wonder if his skin had a sudden change in pallor or if it was the lights. He looked too pale. He then shook his head, blaming it on the dark color of the sweater.

"You like Louis Armstrong?" Rob leaned back in his seat and gestured to the ceiling where the speakers emitted soft jazz.

Francis rubbed at his eyes tiredly, thinking it might be time soon to return to the room. "Yes. I like his songs. _La Vie En Rose_ especially."

"Oh. That's a French song, ain't it?"

Francis gave a tired smile, "_Oui_."

While looking at the untouched liquid in his glass, Rob thought about it for a second before downing it in a fluid motion, showing off the slow bob of his throat. Francis looked away while he rubbed at his tired limbs. The motorcycle ride must have taken more out of him then he thought. "So what is the song about?"

"It's a love song," Francis explained while shutting his eyes. "I suppose you'd translate it to 'Life in rosy hues."

"You alright?" Rob asked and Francis cracked open an eye, ignoring the throbs that light brought.

"I should probably go back to my room." Francis looked to the door and pushed his body up. He rubbed at his lower back, bending back to pop out the crick. The bottom of the sweater curled up his abdomen, showing off light gold skin. When he straightened up he noticed Rob watching out of the corner of his eye, a low blush on his cheek while he swigged down another vial of bourbon.

"Maybe you should wait a little until the alcohol passes." Rob choked out.

"I suppose you're right." Francis sat back into the chair, resting his chin on a curled hand.

Rob continued to prattle on, and Francis continued to semi ignore him. That is until halfway through his musings he realized that he had indeed not told Rob his name. Looking under a canopy of folded fingers, dark eyes darted to Rob's form. He was surprised to see Rob watching him from the corner of his eye again.

Straightening up, Francis turned to him slowly. "I really don't recall introducing myself to you."

Rob shrugged again. "You didn't have to. Your credit card did."

"What?"

Rob shrugged, oblivious to the look of knowing horror on Francis' face. "Well you let it out of your wallet earlier when you were looking for some cash." At this Rob's face turned a dark hue of embarrassment. "I..uh..I kind of looked at it. I hope you don't find that creepy. I get really nervous."

"The credit card…" Francis repeated, and his eyes were distant in fear. _Merde_! The fucking card he had used to pay for the rooms. Francis took a breath and looked to the clock hanging over the alcohol filled wall. 8:21. He had been here for three hours and in the hotel for four...that was plenty of time for the DeLuca to come after him.

He stood up, nearly throwing the bar stool over. "I'm sorry Rob. Something came up. It's really not you, just so you know."

"Oh. I see." He looked back to the glass in his hands. "Well, damn. Can I at least have your number?"

Francis slipped a few dollar bills. "_Désolé_, Rob. I'm interested in someone else." The Frenchman had no time to ponder why the words had slipped from his mouth as he took to a hurried scurry, hoping to get back to the room without a bullet in his back.

Arthur. Arthur had to know what to do. Francis stopped–swearing loudly and making two young girls jump. Arthur had destroyed his phone. How was he going to call him back to the room? Francis let out another swear, slipping fluidly into his home's language and furrowed lithe fingers through his long hair. Of course, he thought belatedly, stalking into the lobby of the hotel and out of the shadowed bar jointed to the hotel, It did him no good seeing as he hadn't even known the other's number.

Francis looked to the elevator, paused and talked to the end of the long stretch of hall where the stairs were. He could only imagine getting stuck in the box with one of those out to get him. Fear bubbled caustically in his stomach, hitching his breath as he glanced behind him to see if anyone was there. The hall was empty, illuminated by the soft yellow sconces on the tan wallpapered walls.

The door lurched forward as he pressed it open, standing under the red illuminated 'exit' sign. No one was in the stairwell either. So far so good. Francis ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time to get into the confines of the room. He could figure out to do then. Golden hair fell into his eyes, blinding his vision for a brief second. First he had to find Arthur. The thought reverberated through his mind, allowing him to calm down and focus. He was one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. He could handle a few men trying to kill him…or worse…at least that's what he kept muttering over and over as he finally pushed through to the third floor hall.

Finally getting to his room, he opened it and ran inside, closing all the locks available on the door. "_Merde_, Francis muttered again, looking in the room and thankfully seeing that no one was inside. At least Francis didn't have to look up at the ceiling or behind the shower curtain. The De Luca liked to sit out in the open and watch you squirm before shooting you between the eyes.

Minutes ticked by, and Francis nervously paced through the room. He had no idea where the volatile British man was. A glance out the windows let him know that it was still raining heavily, and the gloom of dark night had already blanketed the area. He couldn't sit still though– they needed to get out of here. Now.

A set of knocks on the door made the back of his hair stand on edge and Francis briefly wondered if it might be Arthur, but the thought was crushed quickly. "Hey! Bonnefoy! We wanna have a talk with ya." Francis looked to the door, staying still as his eyes narrowed.

"I'd rather not." Francis muttered to himself, then looked about the room to see if there was anything he could defend himself with. Of course, everything was either useless or bolted down. Damn hotels.

"Bonnefoy! Oy, get yer French ass out here so we can talk!" There was light muttering and Francis could tell they were arguing as he opened a drawer and found a bible lying inside. That could work.

He prowled towards the door, sliding the lock off as quietly as he could. The men outside fell silent and the Frenchman nearly cursed again. The door vibrated with tapping. "Oh come on Bonnefoy, we're not gonna shoot yeh. We're just gonna have a talk."

Francis took a breath, looked to the heavens while muttering a soft prayer and then opened the door.

Three men were there. One tall burly man was leaning against the opposite wall, looking as though he were about to die of boredom. Two other men flanked the door, but only the tallest and thinnest of the three was leering at Francis. "Eh, so yous decides to open da door fer me. Nice, eh Jackey?" Blue eyes narrowed as he recognized all three from the night he had disbanded the engagement.

"Can I help you?" He asked, raising to his full wiry height and keeping even and strong against the henchmen. The bible rested heavily in his left hand, curved behind the door.

"Yous can help yerself. Why don't we all go out fer a chat, eh? What do you think of that, Jackey?"

"Eyy. Slim, I like that. I think we can have a nice long chat. Don't you Emry?" Both men turned to look at the man slouching against the wall. He simply rolled his eyes and the gleam of a gun showed under his belt as he crossed his arms.

"I don't care what the fuck you two do. Just get your fucking asses down to the fucking road so we can kill this fucker."

"Eyyy. Such a kidder!" They laughed, and Francis turned wan. The two men suddenly stopped and the tall lanky one with the heavy Brookline accent pushed his jacket aside, showing the gleam of metal. "So how bout that chat?"

"Of course." There was a split second pause and the Frenchman knew that they knew he wasn't going without a fight. BAM. The door slammed forward, crashing into 'Jackey's' face. The man fell back and Slim charged forward– the same exact second Francis used all his strength to slam the bible into the henchman's face.

He ran. Francis bulldozed over the stunned men and began to run towards the stairs. Emry was fishing into his pants as he followed Francis towards the gleaming Exit sign. Francis lodged the door open just as he heard a sigh and then: "I hate chasing down fuckers."

The hotel echoed with two loud shots and somewhere a woman screamed. Francis pivoted into the stairs, seeing Emry turning around to swear at his partners who had nearly shot him. The door was closing in on his face, the sliver of glass framing his purple enraged face. Hands on the railing, Francis flew over the side and under the cover of the stairs a flight below. With a thump, he nearly rolled his ankle, but continued on quickly to evade his attackers. The door upstairs banged open and the howls of curses filled the white stairwell.

Francis was flying down, staying to the outer edge of the wall to avoid being shot. That of course didn't stop the enraged henchmen who tried to shoot him thrice more, two bullets nearly hitting his head and lodging into the concrete wall.

His hands jumped out to force the door open and he found himself in the back parking lot of the hotel. "_Putain_!" he hissed, hand scurrying over his eyes to clear the lightening rain away as he looked where to go next. Just go! His mind screamed and he darted to the left, leg jutting out to kick the door shut as it began to open again.

Taking a left was bad. _Merde_! Fuck! Shit! The Frenchman was in a narrow alley, used for unloading supplies between the hotel and the bar. The only thing out here was a line of green dumpsters and black garbage bags overflowing. Suddenly, he was jerked to a stop as fingers coiled around his shoulder and the motion sent him sprawling to the right and nearly into the wall.

The man, Slim, was on him instantly, trying to punch the blue eyed Frenchman in the jaw. Block. Francis's arm came up and stopped the punch and he kicked out, missing. Another punch came and this one he caught, twisting his attackers arm until a knee met his stomach.

With a cough, Francis lurched forward, getting hit on the back and sent to the grime-covered pavement. He rolled over though and snapped his leg out again, this time bringing his attacker to the ground and who he punched directly in the face. The sound of cartilage breaking and a sharp cry gave little relief as a bullet sliced through the air.

Francis dived away, rolling a little and standing up. Blue eyes darted and he tried to escape to the mouth of the alley. "Fuck you! No shooting!"

Slim was holding his nose, blood dripping between his fingers and down to the garbage below. "No shootin Jackey. Nearly shot me!"

"Eyyy. Just trying to shoot im."

"Both of you shut the fuck up and get the fucker."

Francis saw the gleam of light and bent down in a flash to retrieve hopefully something that could be of use. It was a soup can.

Jackey began to move forward, his hands poised to either strangle or grab Francis. Neither was good. The Frenchman whirled about when the man lunged, and then brought his fist down against the man's neck. Emry was closing in, his eyes looking murderous. When Francis blocked a punch aimed at his abdomen, he received a punch to his left eye from Jackey who had recovered. Throbbing pain filled his head, forcing Francis to wobble slightly before he caught sight of yet another closed fist aimed at him. He lashed out, meeting the soft tissue of a belly and watched as Emry fell down to the ground.

The victory was short lived as an arm wrapped around his neck and Francis was pressed against Jackey's chest while the henchman tried to choke him. Thrash. Bite. Claw. Francis tried to topple his assailant to the ground to get away. Brows cocked in an angry V as he growled into the arm holding him, blue eyes flickered up when Slim began to walk near.

"Thought you were goin ta get away, eh?" His eyes held a light in them as he watched Francis try to thrash again through the limited air supply, nearly helpless.

"OI! What th 'ell iz goin on 'ere. Fuuuuuucking bloody 'ell you bastards."

Francis sprung his legs up together, using Jackey as support to blast his feet into Slim's stomach, watching the other man topple after he looked to the figure at the mouth of the alley way. Francis smirked as the man holding him fell forward, and he was able to fight once again. He did say 'nearly'.

"Fffffffffrancissssssss!" A hammered Arthur began to sway down the dark alley, pointing at the Frenchman angrily with the nearly empty bottle in his hand. "You bloody frog, ey! Where th' 'ell you been? Piss it!" Francis would have laughed at the sight of seeing Arthur sally his way closer, obviously drunk beyond comprehension. "OI! FRANCIS!"

"I'm a little busy Arthur!" Francis shot back, elbowing Emry in the face as he tried to attack him again. Slim was unconscious on the ground and Jackey was crawling up the wall to stand, ready for another go soon.

"Ey. Why you dancing? Stop moving around… can't focus on the bloody four of you fucking sexy Frenchman." Arthur grumbled, nearly falling to the ground when he tripped over the soup can Francis had discarded.

As an answer, Francis managed a lucky shot to punch Emry in the throat, even though he had to succumb to a well-placed knee to his chest. Emry went down with wide eyes for a second, then clawed and brought the Frenchman down to the ground, latching onto him. The two rolled, fighting for dominance and room to punch.

"Eyyyyyyyyyy. Frrrrrancis…piss off." Arthur began to laugh, oblivious to the fight the Frenchman was in. "_I ain't got nothin but love babe…_" he sang, snapping off time with the song that warbled drunkenly from his throat. Breen eyes caught the lights from the parking lot and sparked to life. "_…Eight days a week_."

Francis watched Jackey get off the wall and glare at Arthur. He tried to call out a warning, but two hands secured around his throat were constricting his breath.

"Damn drunk…get the hell outta here."

"Who you…who you callin a–a drunk." Arthur waved the bottle at Jackey.

In response, the winded henchman took a menacing step forward, then jumped back as Arthur threw the bottle at him. " Hey! You sonnabitch."

"Woof." Arthur laughed, free and yet holding an edge of it. He hiccupped again.

Francis punched the man choking him in the ribs and shoved him off, feeling something crack. He Scrambled forward and lunged from his knees at the man as he went for his gun, slamming his down face first into the pavement and knocking him out.

"Look–" Francis warned in panic, seeing Jackey jump at Arthur.

The small blond British man simply cracked a solid punch at the henchman's face, spinning around fully with the force while the New York henchman fell down to the ground, a dazed expression on his face until he shut his eyes. "woah!" Arthur called out, spinning around again and them tumbling to the ground with a drunken laugh.

"–out…" Francis finally finished lamely, then looked at the three armed unconscious men. Well how about that? Francis gave Emry a good kick as he rubbed his throat. Bending down, he fished out all the guns and then tossed them under a bag of what smelled like decaying fish. He then looked about and walked forward to Arthur. "Are you okay?"

"_Eight days a week…"_ he sang in response, mysterious green eyes flashing in mischievousness. "Help me up you French bastard?"

Rubbing his sore side, Francis shrugged and let out a hand, allowing Arthur to grab it and hoist himself up. The force needed for it though sent Francis off balance and he dipped forward. Arthur smiled, then pressed a sloppy kiss to the taller man's mouth.

He stilled, feeling Arthur part with a sigh before looking up and sang, "_Eight days a week…_" He then shut his eyes and fell backwards into a heap of black trash bags. A minute passed as Francis stared at the volatile singer, hand covering his mouth. Arthur let out a snore and the taller man's head dropped while he laughed.

"Only you, _mon ami_." Francis then pulled the pliant body up and onto his back. He stumbled once, nearly tripping over the whiskey bottle lying on the ground and then began to trudge up to their room.

* * *

I'm so so so sorry for the lateness that this is. I hope to update sooner.

_I'd like to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

_PrussianAwesomeness- glad you liked it :)_

_ candy4yourEYEZ-Yes...Arthur is all...eh._

_Library Dragon- I'm glad you enjoy this, I love FrUK :)_

_kiriutar- I'm honored that you like it so much!I hope I haven't really spoiled you from other reading, I just try and write something that would be to the level my professors would expect. I'm really happy you like my writing style too. :D_

_marinoa- Hope it lessened the cliff hanger..._

_liliac gurl- Hope you liked the chapter_

_whatthehellwasithinkin-(X5) Woah, thanks for all the reviews on each chapter. Really. It was awesome :) Oh, the raindrop was supposed to sound wicked angsty...Arthur is angsty for a really good reason as you will find out later on. _

_AnaTheAwesome- glad you like the story :)_

_Hannaadi88- Glad you're back on track :) Francis isn't...quite...straight...but that's another chapter._

_MelodyOfStarshine- I'm happy you like it. _

_Agerevalutaion- Many more chapters to come!_

_fotnot- I'm happy to hear you like my writing style, it means a lot to me. Hope you liked the chapter. _


	7. Meeting Arthur's Brother

Hello to all! Wow, I haven't updated in awhile... I feel so bad. ugh. But guess who had writers block! I can't believe I had writers block for so many of my stories. Jeeze. College sucks out my life. Anyway, I hop you all like this installment...it's part of three ideas that has made this story what it is and I hope you don't kill me for it's lateness. Thanks for being so patient!

_Chris

* * *

**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Seven–

_In which there is coffee and crumbs_

Francis was sitting at the table in the hotel lobby. His back was pressed against a wall as he sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, reading a discarded newspaper. On the table before him sat a half eaten muffin, and the dredges of a glass of orange juice. Every few minutes, the blue-eyed man would glance up to survey the crowd and then resume reading words that were not being processed.

He glanced to the clock above the small gas lit fireplace and sighed, shuffling the paper close and then reopening it a seconds later. When he was taking another sip of the burnt coffee, he saw from the corner of his eye a new addition to the small group of customers eating. Arthur was stalking towards the Frenchman with a scowl on his thin lips.

Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair. Arthur looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot and deep purple shadows pooled under his green eyes. One side of his face was still red from falling asleep on his arm. He stood in front of Francis, glaring down lividly and then snatched a chair, sitting down in it abruptly.

Neither said a word, and Francis simply gave a questioning glance to the Brit wondering if either the hangover or the mood swing had passed yet. After working his jaw for a moment and shielding his eyes from the light, Arthur snapped in a hushed and angry tone, "Why the fuck did I wake up naked?"

Francis turned the page of the newspaper, coughing lightly. He glanced back to Arthur, crossing his legs under the table. The wool of his sweater scratched against his chest. "Ah. That's simple." Francis folded the paper. "I had my wicked way with you all last night. I'm surprised you don't remember."

Arthur flushed a deep red, highlighting his bright eyes. "What!" He stood up, nearly flipping the table over. Half of the patrons in the room turned to stare at the heaving English man, confusion written all over their faces.

"Sit down," Francis sighed, sipping from the cup. "I'm only messing with you." Waiting until Arthur had sat back down, he could already hear the growl rippling from the other throat. "Think of it as payment for dragging you up to the room last night," he cut in airily and then folded lithe fingers together. Arthur still looked volatile.

"What are blabbering on about? Augh, God. Fucking fluorescents. Tell me why the bloody fuck I didn't have any of my clothes on before I deck you and leave you on the side of the road to rot!"

"You stripped when we got into the room last night after the De Luca encounter. Something about being able to fly better…" Francis chuckled when Arthur turned a deeper red. "But I did not dress you again because your clothes were wet and I did not want you to catch cold."

Arthur put another hand over his brow to shade his eyes from the light above. "De Luca? Bullocks, I must have been smashed."

Francis slid a set of Advil over the table from his jeans pocket. "Here. Take some. I think you actually might have drank that entire bottle of whiskey last night by yourself." Francis got up, grabbing a hot tea and a banana from the little breakfast area and slid it over the table as he sat back down. "Here, this'll help."

Arthur muttered something that could be taken as a 'thanks' and took a sip of the hot tea after swallowing the pills. He groaned and put his head in his arms.

They stayed silent like that, Francis sipping from his coffee and watching Arthur stay a dead as a rock while scanning the crowd for anyone suspicious. The Frenchman was not going to be caught off guard again. Arthur finally began to pick at the banana, breaking off chunks of the white meaty flesh of the fruit and nibbling on it quietly. Every so often, he would wince and glower at either the lights or a loudly chatting couple.

The Advil kicked in quickly and Francis watched as Arthur raised his head away from the tabletop and rested his chin in his palm, intense green eyes staring straight into his blue. "So I think we'll get to Buffalo today." He stopped to glare at the ceiling. "Unless there's another storm."

"The paper said that there should be no problem. It should be sunny."

Arthur hummed and then sipped from his tea. He looked out towards the lobby and drummed his fingers on the table. "I want to make a stop though."

"Oh? Sure. You are the one driving." Francis folded his cup together. "Where?"

With a scowl, Arthur stood up and began to throw away his meager breakfast. "To drop by and give my brother a visit." He then looked back over his shoulder to Francis. "Get ready. We leave in half an hour."

Picking up his trash, Francis trailed behind serenely, watching Arthur's back as the man stormed back up to the room.

Francis stood silently next to the bike, stretching out his legs from the long bike ride. Groaning as he arched his back, Francis gazed towards the silent blonde next to him and slowly surveyed his surroundings.

* * *

"I didn't think you meant this kind of meeting." The Frenchman said solemnly, twisting lightly to study his companion. Arthur's lips quirked into a thin frown, lips pressed together tightly in hidden emotion. He said nothing, but removed his gloves stiffly. He stood rigidly and turned his face away.

Neither said anything. Francis turned to look at the sea of carved stone, blue eyes taking in the silent field. A cemetery had not been what he imagined when Arthur had mentioned that they would be visiting his brother. A lump filled his throat heavily and Francis swallowed, turning back to Arthur. He was surprised to see green eyes narrowed in a volatile glare towards him.

"Well, are you going to stand there and admire the view all day or are you coming?"

Francis blinked, not expecting the enigmatic man to want him to delve into his past. Words were suddenly numb on his tongue and all he could do was blink, nodding once slowly.

Arthur's brows furrowed together and he turned with a jolt starting to walk down one of the many rows of gravestones. His walk was stiff and he continued to stare straight ahead, Francis noted and tucked his hands into his jean pockets. The wind stirred gently, forcing Francis to tuck his hair behind his ear. The leaves rustled in the trees.

There seemed no rhyme or reason to the way that Arthur cut through the grave plots, and for a few silent minutes the Frenchman wondered if it was possible that Arthur could be lost. His thoughts came to an end when the shorter man stopped in front of a salmon colored stone, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket and glaring down at the squat grave marker.

Francis came to a stop next to Arthur, looking to him for some sort of signal or message. Normally people began to chat or explain something about the deceased, but Arthur stayed stubbornly silent. Blue eyes looked away and Francis read the little headstone.

_Peter Kirkland_

_September 2__nd__ 1994- December 10__th__ 2005_

_Blossomed on earth to bloom in Heaven_

_Our little Angel_

Beside it rested a rotting wooden pot, its binding orange and black with rust as two decayed and shriveled plants lay inside. On top of the simple grave was a few smooth rocks and a chipped and weathered robot figurine. At its base lay a wilted yellow carnation. Francis studied it in silence, for a good minute and slowly turned back to glance at his fellow travel companion. Arthur was gazing at the stone with a stony expression, but there was a distant look to his eye that made Francis turn away to give him his privacy.

"He wasn't an angel."

Francis glanced from the corner of his eye. Arthur had folded his arms, tensing his back and working his jaw. He made a motion to the stone. "Every memory I have of him he was making some ruckus or pulling some prank. He was never an angel."

"Oh," Francis said slowly, wondering what to say to the caustic man. He kept his hands in his pockets but turned to Arthur fully. "Most kids are like that."

Arthur looked away from the stone, his vivid green eyes glassy in the sunlight. He let out one low bark of laughter before humming and tilting his head to the sky. "I suppose so."

"What happened?" Francis asked, watching Arthur carefully to make sure he hadn't stepped into any dangerous areas.

The Briton's lips pressed into a dangerously thin line. His cheeks puffed lightly with a hissed breath. "He got the flu. Ten days later he was dead."

"I'm sorry," Francis said quietly, turning back to the glossy headstone. As much as Arthur was prickly, he could tell he was troubled by his brother's death. For that Francis was sorry.

"It was a long time ago," Arthur muttered automatically and looked away from the sky. It was starting to cloud up again, tick and grey with the promise of rain again.

Francis remained silent and suddenly Arthur began to talk quietly. "He was…a good kid. Annoyed the hell out of me, don't get me wrong. We had many a row back then. He loved to pester Kiku about robots and anime.

"Kiku? Isn't that the name of your roommate?"

"Yeah, Kiku grew up in my neighborhood. We were pretty good friends back then, especially with all the fights my mum and I had." Arthur gave a bitter laugh. "I think I spent more nights at Kiku's home then my own during senior year." Francis looked at the straw haired man, watching him furrow his hand into his hair roughly. He twisted towards Francis, an unreadable emotion in his eye when a tense minute of silence passed. "Not going to ask why?"

"It's not really my place. I don't want to pry." The Frenchman chewed lightly at his lip, rubbing at a sore leg gently and slowly.

Arthur hummed and walked to the headstone, placing a bare hand onto the carved marker. "Seems like it was lifetimes ago we took that picture, eh Peter?" Arthur asked morosely, his face contorted as though he were about to cry, but with a great sigh he broke back into his bitter smile.

The photo that had been in Arthur's room sprung to mind. Francis looked down to the trodden grass and wondered if his brother's death was what had caused him to become so bitter and caustic. It seemed so far a away from the carefree smile that Arthur had in the photo to what Francis now saw of the Englishman.

"His death must have been hard on you," Francis finally voiced. He folded his arms and stared at Arthur's back.

"Yeah, well my mum didn't make it much better." Arthur held his hands tightly behind his back, standing rigidly. "Did I mention our family was very religious? 'Zealous' has a nice ring to it." Arthur sounded airy, but there was a dark and pungent edge to his words that raised the hair on the back of the Frenchman's neck. He continued to gaze warily at Arthur. " Ah yes. Lovely mum. Everything had to be a reason with her, everything was in God's plan- punishment and praise. Though, she made sure I knew it was punishment that Peter was dead."

"She blamed you for your brother's death?" Francis asked.

"Yes. I guess the timing was right for her to put them together." The Englishman paused, his voice sounding thick. Arthur tilted his head but he wasn't looking at Francis. "How'd you guess?"

"Similar families, I guess– if I'm guessing right." Francis toed the soft earth, creating welts in the grass. The wind stirred again forcing the leaves to chatter. "I'm guessing the same year you told her you were gay was the same year your brother died."

"Well if you count 'telling' as her catching me fucking with another bloke, then, yes." Arthur finally turned enough that Francis could see the trace of a bitter and wry smile. "I suppose I'm lucky she didn't smother me in my sleep." He swiped at his eyes roughly and Francis turned away, giving him some privacy. Instead he turned his attention to the small willow near by, its twisting boughs dancing softly with each flutter of wind. Arthur's breath hitched as he asked, "Similar families? No Rich and fancy liberal European family?"

Francis simply gave a laugh, toeing the grass once again. "No." His voice was light and held little pain. "My own mother, and father for that matter, wasn't very…happy with my 'experimentation' as she called it." Francis looked to the sky with a shrug. "But such is such. _C'est la vie_. I moved on and we are happy with a letter once a year." He turned his blue eyes back to the Englishman. "You are very…pensive."

Arthur turned, glaring. Francis said nothing about his wet eyes as the Englishman snapped, "Is that a bad thing?"

"You can't move on if you don't let it go."

"We'll what if I don't want to?"

Francis frowned. "Its not healthy for the mind."

"Well excuse me for not wanting to become some flighty Frenchman!" Arthur snapped, folding his arms challengingly.

"It is better then being such a stoic Englishman. You will look like an old man by the time you're thirty! All that frowning will only make wrinkles." Francis snapped back.

"So vain. It surprises me you don't carry around a fucking mirror with you!"

"So vulgar. It surprises me you don't have public violations for indecency!"

"Frog!"

"Eyebrows!" Francis spluttered out, unable suddenly to come up with a good comeback.

"Eyebrows!" Arthur yelled, actually stamping on the ground while grinding his teeth. "What the bloody hell is wrong with my eyebrows!"

Francis coughed into his shoulder, "Nothing, if you want them to look like dead caterpillars."

"Bastard." Arthur muttered, punching Francis arm roughly. The Frenchman rubbed at the spot, about to swear at the shorter green-eyed man when suddenly he bubbled into laughter, tilting his head to the sky.

Francis stared at him, thoroughly worried as he continued to laugh like a madman, even raising his arms slightly with his cackle, and then patted the Frenchman's arm as he calmed down.

"Thank you." Arthur said, and save a subdued smile to the headstone.

Francis just nodded, unsure what the thanks was given for and watched as Arthur began to walk away from the site. And for a brief minute, Francis had the urge to promise Peter something along the lines of protecting Arthur or making sure he would be all right when Peter couldn't be there to watch him.

But then the Frenchman realized just how ridiculous that was and hurried on to catch up with the prickly Englishman.

* * *

So...yes. Peter is dead...*hides* So now you know who was in the picture in chapter two! Not Alfred or Matthew. Only a few more chapters left... (I'd say less than five)

_I'd like to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

_Agerevalution- No worries that I'll stop, I love this story very much even if it gives me agita. Glad you liked drunk Arthur :)_

_marinoa-I'm glad you liked the fight!_

_whatthehellwasithinkkin- As you can see, there are many things for Arthur to get drunk over. Being 'perfect' is a direct correlation over the guilt from his brother's death. _

_Kita kitsune (x6)- I'm glad you like the story...and yeah. I'm not one for love at first sight either. I'm happy that you picked up the phone call...I was afraid it was too subtle. I'm glad you liked drunk arthur so much XD Thanks for reading :)_

_tocool456- Thanks! I hope you keep reading!_

_Ceri Siracha- Hope this satisfies the need for an update :)_

_Luuh-sama- I'm glad you like my works- it's very humbling that you like so many of them :)_

_ilfreitas- No...Francis wont be forgetting not to use his card, I can assure you that. _

_Thank you all for reading! All your reviews mean a lot to me!_


	8. Meeting The Positives

Hey everyone! Not much for comments this time since I've got some homework to do. Hope you are all well!

_Chis

* Note- POTTY MOUTHS GALORE (especially F**k)

* * *

**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Eight–

In which there are reunions

Francis was quiet as he watched Arthur pull off his helmet, still straddling the bike. He furrowed his hand through his hair and turned vivid green eyes to the Frenchman. "This is the stop," Arthur said and Francis nodded. He was already standing on the grimy grey sidewalk, arching back slightly to stretch both his legs and his back- sore from the ride here. Arthur rolled his helmet between gloved hands. "So where are you heading next?"

Francis looked down to the ground, ocean blue eyes contemplative in thought. "I suppose Canada, since it's clear the De Luca's are still actively after me. I've always enjoyed Quebec and I have an ex there that I might be able to ask help from… if the times truly call for it." He glanced back up, rubbing his fingers against the stubble on his chin. "I don't really know after that. Do you think the De Luca's would search for me that far?"

Arthur spat over his shoulder, and turned his burning gaze back at Francis. "Eejit. You dumped the head's sister. The only place you'll be safe is under the wing of a rival. Or maybe in England." He gave a wolfish smile that showed his teeth. "I've been told they don't like us all that much."

Francis tilted his head, pulling off some fuzz from the sweater sleeve. "The Vargas brother, right?" When Arthur hummed as his reply Francis gave a warm smile. "I'm sure you were quite the formidable foe."

The Briton gave a nod and then twisted, his gaze falling towards the bar only a block away. Red neon lights seeped onto the ground and laughter could be heard. He glanced back at Francis, frowning deeply. "I need to be going. I'm sure the two fuckers are already looking for me. The train station is right down that way. Two blocks and you're there." He fell into silence, working his jaw as if he wanted to say something. Francis simply watched on questioningly. Finally he waved his hand and growled. "Just don't talk to anyone Italian, alright? It would be a smear to my name if it got out that I got you to Buffalo and then you were shot an hour later."

"Then I'll try to make it to 61 minutes." He gave a small, yet overly dramatic bow. "I thank you for helping me, Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur rolled his green eyes, but there was a smile there on his thin lips. "Yeah, yeah. Overdramatic Frenchie. Later." Arthur hesitated and then put on his helmet. With a glance back at Francis, he turned down the road and headed off to the venue where he would perform. Francis watched him head off until he disappeared behind a corner and Francis frowned. In truth, he did not feel like leaving. With a scowl, the blond haired man kicked at the ground. Arthur was something interesting, and interesting things made Francis curious. He had the urge to continue to follow after the bristling Englishman, but reminded himself that he was on the run and he should be getting on a train to take him farther away.

Francis frowned and pulled the sleeves to the sweater up, glancing back down the block where Arthur would be performing. He should go see him, after all- it might be the last time Francis was in America what with the De Luca's reach. Why not leave everything off with one last good memory? Let everything go out with a bang.

Francis smiled, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked down to where the bar was already humming in music.

* * *

The inside of the bar was packed with people. Francis did not drink anything, but it did not matter with the bar being swarmed like a watering hole in the desert. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and fog, illuminated red, green and white with the different colored lights that encircled the stage. In front of him, a woman in a black tanktop and jeans giggled to her friend while sipping a beer. Behind him a man was eagerly discussing the football game that had taken place last night and who he thought would win next week.

The air was pulsing in energy, from both the multitude of people packed into the bar, awaiting the show, and their excitement. Francis craned his neck to look at the stage, still empty save for a few instruments as the band still prepared to go on. As Francis turned back to look at the doors— he wasn't stupid after all, he knew the De Luca might come and he had to know where the exits were— however, there was a moment where Francis' breath caught on the back of his throat, as he recognized silvery blonde hair.

Worming his way through the crowd, it took several minutes before he came to the woman's side, looking at her in surprise at her remorseful look. "Katyusha, right? Arthur's friend from earlier. "

The woman jumped, blue eyes widening in surprise as she looked at him. She chewed on her lip and Francis took a step back as she sniffled and wiped her eyes from the tears gathering in the corner. "Y-yes. I am she." She held out her hand and Francis took it, softly shaking it. "I remember you were with Arthur. I don't remember getting your name."

"Ah. Francis, sorry. Are you alright?" He thought of Arthur with the sudden remembrance of Ivan, Katyusha's brother and Arthur's boyfriend. Why would she be here? Was she following Arthur like earlier?

She gave a small smile at the question. "Yes, thank you. I am simply worried."

"Worried?" Why was there that small slick and twisting feeling in his stomach? "

"Ivan is talking to Arthur." Her eyes turned down and Francis looked to the door, as if to look for the man he didn't know. "He's so angry…I don't know what to say or do." She paused and fingered the tassels of her scarf. "He told me to wait here until he found Arthur."

"Ivan is here? Talking to Arthur?" The straw haired man had in no way seemed like he had wanted to see Ivan. He had smashed his phone by throwing it out the window! All the previous notions Francis had had about an abusive relationship came back into his mind, whirring frantically and making him sick. But Arthur was someone who was strong, someone who could take care of himself…_merde_! He could handle himself against mob men! No doubt if Francis came running to find Arthur in the minute fear that he was worried when he was supposed to be on a train to Canada, the pugnacious man would sock him in the mouth.

Shutting his blue eyes for a second, Francis reminded himself that Arthur was only someone he had met a day or two ago. There was no reason to be worried about someone he knew so little of. Arthur was only a friend in passing.

Then his eyes snapped open and he decided, _fuck that_.

"Do you know where Ivan went? Arthur was angry too and I fear an altercation."

She watched him for a moment, seemingly summing him up in that one glance. Finally she clutched her hands together and looked down at the ground. "My brother is a good man…he just has…a…temper." She looked back up and they locked eyes. "He's afraid Arthur's going to leave him and he's trying to stop that. He really does love him."

"Katyusha, _s'il te plait_." He hesitated, but awkwardly placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are making excuses, and I fear that means nothing good. If you didn't think Arthur would be hurt you would brush me off, _oui_?" He took a deep breath and squared his shoulder, gaze pleading. "Where did he go?"

"Out back, to the back entrance for the stage." She looked up to Francis and shook her head. "Brother is good. I don't think he would hurt Arthur." She stopped and her gaze lowered back to the ground. "I hope he wouldn't hut Arthur but he is scared."

"I understand. _Merci_." He pattered her shoulder once and then turned quickly to the stage. Arthur would have no doubt gotten inside. Only once did he apologize as he weaved through the crowed and pushed his way to the stage. Finally, despite the angry swears from a few teenagers he pushed aside, he jumped up on the stage and darted through the curtains.

"Hey!" Francis turned at the angry voice, seeing a white haired man jump off a crate. His red eyes were narrowed in annoyance, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for Arthur! Have you seen him?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He glanced from the man, Gilbert he guessed from the descriptions Arthur had told him, and around the stage.

"Nah, bastard's gonna make us late. Is he even in fucking Buffalo?" Gilbert asked the man twirling a set of drumsticks absentmindedly. His green eyes darted up before he went back to focusing on the sticks in his hand. "I don't know."

"He said he was here," came a soft voice from behind the Frenchman. He turned around to see what looked like a young teenage girl, decked out in a red vintage baby doll dress and black leggings. Lilli, he guessed. Then the other man had to Antonio. Francis was meeting Arthur's band mates. "He just texted me," Lilli said, holding up her blackberry. She brushed a lock of dirty blonde hair back, green eyes going to the glowing screen of her phone.

"Then where the fuck is he?" Gilbert drummed his fingers against his leather-clad thigh and trained his red eyes back on Francis. "So who the fuck are you?"

Apparently Arthur wasn't the only one who swore so much. "Francis. I came here with Arthur. Ivan's here and I wanted to make sure he was alright."

The name 'Ivan' seemed to have struck a cord within the trio for suddenly they all stopped fidgeting or texting. Antonio frowned and jumped off his crate to walk over to Francis. "_Que_? What about Ivan?"

Lilli pocketed her phone and turned to Francis. "Are you sure?" She asked, her voice still soft in gentle questioning.

"_Oui_! His sister Katyusha is here. Do you not know where he is?"

Lilli looked genuinely worried while biting on her lower lip. The two men both nodded to each other and Gilbert thumbed towards behind him. "We'll all go look for him. Arthur always gets pissed off when Ivan shows up before a show."

"I'll go check outside," Lilli said and walked away to the right. Music began to sprout from the stage and Francis looked to the other two in confusion. "The openers. We've only got ten minutes." Antonio said and took off to the left. Francis ran after where Lilli had walked to, hoping the protective woman would lead him to the irritable Englishman. "Wait," he called out and ran to her side. She glanced over her shoulder, forest green eyes looking black in the shadows of the back stage. "Arthur mentioned you earlier, If you check that exit, I can find my brother and we'll check the one by the entrance."

Francis nodded, but then glanced at the woman. "How did he text you? His phone was destroyed yesterday."

"He used another phone. I don't know the number though." Lilli made a motion to hurry. "Go check! We're running out of time." She disappeared into a hallway, texting on the small black phone.

Francis didn't run, though he did quicken his pace. As he stood under the mellow red light, hands braced against the smooth metal of the push handle, there was a low surge of angry mutterings. He opened the door quietly, blinking against the light of the dying day and searched down the end of the alleyway.

"Just piss off right now, I've got a gig and you're making me late. I told you I come back home and then we'd fucking talk."

"I needed to talk to you now. You were traveling with another man?"

"Oh fuck off!" Francis walked towards the end of the alley, hearing Arthur's voice getting louder. He stopped though as he came to the corner, wondering if he should interrupt his talk with Ivan. His boyfriend, the businessman reminded himself.

Francis waited by the edge of the alley, his shoulder pressed against the wall as he decided what to do. Arthur and Ivan were behind the bend of the alley, probably having gone there to gain privacy as they snapped at each other. Francis had no right to involve himself in Arthur's affairs. He turned to go back to the stage exit; it would be better if he told one of The Positives he had found their irritable guitarist. There was a slap and Francis froze, he turned quickly back to where the end of the alley was. It had been the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

"Don't lie to me Arthur," Ivan muttered. The hair on the back of Francis' neck and arm rose. "I don't like it when people lie to me."

What on earth were they talking about? Blue eyes darted to the stage door and he touched the rough brick as Arthur's steel cold voice echoed through the alley. "Don't ever touch me again."

There was a grunt, a sound of surprise and finally a yelp of pain. Francis jolted at the yelp and finally strode into the alley to where he would be able to see Arthur and Ivan. It was time to break this up.

He took a step away from the wall, clearing his throat. Walking forward, either the two men ignored him or they had simply been too involved with each other that they had not heard him. Ivan, or whom he assumed was Ivan, towered over Arthur, pinning him against the brick wall harshly. The shorter man looked livid, trying to jerk out of the hold the other had him in. Ivan kept his legs and hips against him, making sure he wouldn't be able to kick out. There was a red mark on his face, highlighting the anger in his grass green eyes.

Suddenly, Francis was angry. With everything that had happened, he had been resigned and accepted what was going on to him. He however did not like seeing Arthur trapped. He did not like seeing a red mark on his face. In short, Francis was pissed.

"Excuse me," he snapped angrily, "Arthur needs to go onstage. Right. Now."

Violet eyes bored into him as Ivan turned his head, his grip tightening over Arthur's wrists. Arthur winced minutely before returning to his furious scowl, both at Ivan and then at Francis. The Frenchman glanced at him and then returned his gaze to Ivan. "He will come once I am done talking to him." Ivan smiled, looking like an adult dealing with a small child's amusing tantrum.

"I'm afraid that's not how it works," Francis said, widening his stance. He wasn't leaving. He was the Devil of Wall Street! People feared him in one of the most odious and lawless areas in a city—the stock market. "Arthur is needed now."

Ivan glared and suddenly growled, "You are the man he was traveling with."

"Yes," Francis faltered wondering what he meant. "Arthur gave me a ride here." He looked to Arthur, who had switched his gaze to watch Ivan carefully, "Your band mates are looking for you, the opening act is already performing."

"So you are the man Arthur has been cheating with," Ivan suddenly growled.

Arthur gave a caustic glare to his boyfriend still pinning him harshly to the world. "Bloody fuck, would you give a fucking moment to fucking speak?" Arthur yelled, "I haven't cheated on you, you god damn Russian bastard. Now let me go. Now."

Ivan looked back down to where Arthur was glaring, face stony. All three of them jumped in surprise as two gunshots ripped through the air, embedding into the concrete wall above Ivan's head.

"Please let go of Arthur, we really do need to get onstage," Lilli said softly. She took a step next to Francis, lowering the black semi automatic pistol down towards the ground with both hands.

Slowly, Ivan stepped away, his violet eyes narrowed. Arthur simply took a step away, looking furious at the whole situation and snapped at his boyfriend, "We'll talk about this later."

Arthur did not look back, and simply glared murderously at Francis' open shock that there would even be a 'later'. "I don't have a bloody vag, I don't need someone coming out to defend me, you wanker."

"I know." Francis said amiably.

Lilli grabbed Arthur's hands, red from where Ivan had been grasping his wrists tightly. She gave Ivan one glance with her dark green eyes and pulled the Englishman to the door and entering the stage. Francis followed after them, noticing Ivan simply staring after him.

* * *

Once they had been inside, Gilbert had literally shoved a guitar into Arthur's hands and shoved him on stage. Lilli had stayed two seconds behind to pull her dress up and place the gun back into a holster. She had given Francis a quick word of thanks and dashed out to start performing her part of their first song,

Francis had quickly used a side route pointed out by the small backstage crew to get back out to the smoky area of the large bar. The lights cut through the air and guitars and drums blasted through the speakers. Several people called out in glee when The Positives stepped out and played, mostly punk rock from what Francis could glean. The energy in the air was addictive and more then once he was smiling at either the antics of the audience or the band on stage.

After a few songs, Gilbert stepped away from the microphone and Arthur took a step forward, breathing a little heavy, but grinning like a jackal. "Right," He said into the mike, "This isn't one of our songs, but I don't think you tossers'll mind all that much." He stepped back nodding to the other band members. Francis noted that he hadn't even had time to change out of the clothes. He still wore the black and read shirt and jeans, but had shed his jacket. The guitars began to heavily play their chords and Arthur smirked, stepping back to the microphone.

"_I am an anti-christ_

_I am an anarchist_

_Don't know what I want but_

_I know how to get it_

_I wanna destroy the passer by cos I_

_I wanna be anarchy!_

_No dogs body!"_

Francis had to smile at seeing Arthur so energetic, and at the same time so happy. It truly had to be one of the best ideas he had had to stay behind and watch Arthur play. There was one moment when Arthur was playing that he swore their eyes had met, and Francis once again gave a happy smile.

It had been a half hour since the band began to play, and finally all the music and lights got to Francis' head. He ducked out of the bar and into the night air, clearing his head before he would return to go back into the bar. Walking down a few storefronts, Francis placed his hands in his pocket and looked up the sky. It was cloudy.

As he passed by an alleyway, back on his way to returning to the bar, when a black car slowed down next to the sidewalk. Francis glanced at the car, figuring it was only trying to park when with dread he noticed the tinted windows. Before he could even turn, the window lowered and Liviana looked at him coldly. Her brown eyes were cold with anger. Neither said a word and she turned back to looking at the front of the car. Two men got out and Francis took a step away.

"Kill him," Was all Liviana said before the window glided up.

Francis turned around, running away as one of the men jumped over the hood of the car and blocked him from the bar entrance. "Merde!" Francis swore as he was backed into the alleyway. He had barely made it towards the back of the stage exit when a bullet ripped through the air once again.

But unlike last time the De Luca's had shot at him, this time bullet didn't miss.

* * *

Oh, this whole chapter I was laughing like a madwoman. This is what the Sex Pistols and Joan Jett do to me, yes they do. So many questions now yes? WELL TUNE IN NEXT TIME, SAME BAT TIME, SAME BAT CHANNEL.

duhnuhnunuhnuhnuhnuhnuh...

_I'd like to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

FrUKislove- I'm glad you like the story! :)

liliac gurl- I am sad Peter is dead too...but I hope you like this chapter, much more action than angst!

PrussianAwesomeness- That is quite amusing the birth dates, funny how that works :) And yes...Arthur has had a rough time.

Ceri Siracha- Yay updates :) And Arthur is perfect to have a tragic past, other wise how would we get such a brooding man? ...he's almost like Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff...anyway...

Zelda-FF- No, I have other plans for Alfred...I hope you enjoyed Badass!Lilli

ultimatebishoujo21- Hope that answered your wonderings.

marinoa-Not so many problems this time, more of my own fault for juggling so many stories on FF and Livejournal. Ah...I hope you liked it though :)

THANK YOU ALL FOR THE REVIEWS! they really mean a lot to me :D

Note* Lyrics are from the Sex Pistols' Anarchy in the UK


	9. The Vargas Brothers

Thanks for all the reviews and support everyone! My roommate threatened to kill me if I didn't get this out quickly so here it is. I hope you enjoy!

_Chris

* * *

**Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Nine–

_In which it is agreed Liviana is not nice_

Francis gasped, clutching his side as hot white fire erupted. He had been shot, he realized through a haze, stumbling to a halt as the jarring fact whirled through his thoughts. The world seemed to slow down and become more vivid and he turned to see the gunmen lower their hands. He knew, just knew, that the De Luca would just walk over after he had fallen like a wounded animal and finish him. Just like a dying dog. Francis gasped again, his steps staggering as he tried to keep going forward. Wasn't the stage exit close?

"Now, now. Don't run away like a coward. Might as well just give up." The De Luca henchman shrugged, "Not like you're going to make it out of this alive."

Francis ignored them. Down the alley and to the right—that's where the stage exit was and there he could get help. The world spun, tilting and ebbing in and out. There was blood on his hands.

Francis was not one to faint at blood, but then again the worst injury he had ever received was falling on a bush stump when he had been five. There was still a soft pink cross-shaped scar there on his upper thigh. There was a difference now between then and now, even though it seemed to be the same amount of blood staining the sweater. Back then he had cried for his mother and she had rushed to him. Now there were two gunmen about to kill him and there was no one to look for.

The alley smelled like rainwater and garbage, Francis realized as he fell down to one knee. The asphalt bit into his hand and he grunted when his side flared in pain.

"Damn, my aim's off these days. I swore I got his kidneys," One of the gunmen muttered. Francis looked up to see him frown.

"Prolly cause you've been skipping the shooting range to bang that Asian chick." The second man looked at his gun, checking the magazine before reloading it.

The first man, shorter with thick black hair frowned, glared at his partner. Francis' breath was starting to shorten and he got dizzier. Was it normal for the blue sweater to be black with blood from the gunshot wound? His expertise in this area was limited to cop shows or films, which wasn't a very reliable resource. His ocean blue eyes darted, looking for any means of escape and the taller of the two men clicked his tongue at him.

"No hope to escape now. Might as well say your last words before we put you down."

Francis said nothing, simply looking up to the sky and then the ground. His hands shook lightly. In the distance the sound of music could still be heard reverberating through the brick of the filled bar. Thoughts of his mother and father, distant friends, and regrets should have been billowing through his mind now that he was about to die. At least, he knew that's what he should of thought what with all the survivors of accidents saying so. But nothing like that crossed his mind. It was blazing green eyes, a stubborn smirk and a rough attitude all rolled up into one small Englishman. Francis gave a quiet chuckle. Of course it would take being shot to realize he liked Arthur. Liked more than an eccentric friend. _Merde_.

Two shots ripped through the air, deafening, and Francis clenched his eyes shut. His side flared with the hot pain again, throbbing along with his rapid heart as he tried to curl into himself. There was no new pain though and he looked up. The two gunmen both looked stunned, the shorter one swaying before he crashed to the ground. The other slumped to his knees—eyes open in surprise before falling on his face. Francis stared at their bodies, realizing they were dead from the blooming red wounds on the back of their skulls and glanced back into the alley where two men stood. Both looked identical except for the expressions on their faces. They wore suits and the shooter stowed away his gun after putting the safety back on. The second man looked in worry to the identical man, wringing his hands. _Twins_, Francis realized belatedly and put more pressure on the wound despite the pain. "Ve, fratello, you know Ludwig said to talk first then shoot, not shoot first then talk."

"Like I care what the potato bastard says."

"Oh! Someone's hurt, you shot someone!"

The twin handling the gun frowned and slapped the other over the head. "Idiot! I only fired two shots. No doubt De Luca did that."

The other brother came to Francis' side and knelt down, apparently not caring about the blood or grime on what was clearly an expensive suit. "Are you alright? Ve, that's a lot of blood." His dark brown eyes seemed to close in thought before he reached out and pressed a hand to the wounded Frenchman's side. "Romano, you should call an ambulance." Francis had to wonder if it was the loss of blood or was the man actually saying all of this in a singsong voice? He tried to pull away as the man tried pulling him up to a sitting position, the movement scorching his side in pain. "You need to keep that elevated or else you'll bleed to death." Francis decided that it was indeed blood loss because no one should be smiling while saying that.

"Fuck, I hate calling the police. Next time you can do it Feliciano," Romano muttered, but was dialing on his phone anyway.

Gritting his teeth, Francis pressed down harder on the wound. "So I finally meet the Vargas then," he said and blinked against the wave of white that was swallowing his vision.

"Oh, you know us?" Feliciano asked happily.

Maybe it wasn't the best thing to talk about rival gangs when you were dying, but there was no energy to care. His skin was feeling cold and clammy. "How could I not, being around Liviana?" Francis still shallowly sucked in air.

"Oh. I know who you are," Feliciano said, tilting his head while readjusting his hands, red with Francis' blood. "Ve, who would have thought Liviana would just kill her Fiancé."

"I would. She's a bitch." Romano hung up his phone and leaned against the brick wall of the bar.

Feliciano glanced at his brother and fellow Mafia leader before giving Francis a smile. "Don't worry. An ambulance will be here soon…oh no, we're going to have to come up with a cover story!" He looked genuinely worried, brown eyes wide.

"Oh suck it up, I think it's okay for us fucking lie."

"But mama said to never tell a lie."

Romano looked as though he were about to bash his head into the wall. Instead he rubbed at his temples. "I'm sure that's what she'd be most concerned with." He watched both men on the ground and shrugged. "I'm going to find tomato bastard. You stay here."

As Romano stalked off into the alley, Francis rolled his blue eyes to watch Feliciano. "What…are you doing here… anyway?" He was getting dizzier.

"Oh, Romano is dating a performer here."

"The Positives?"

"Si!"

"Oh? Who?"

"Antonio. He used to work for us, but he likes this better I think. Do you know them?"

"I know Arthur somewhat." His vision was growing dimmer. Francis looked up to the sky and hummed gently. Feliciano was staring at something in the distance. The night was clearing up and a few stars could be seen. In and out of the clouds blinked a few airplanes. He shut his eyes for a second, only to rip them back over when he heard a furious, "You got fucking shot?"

Francis blinked against both his hazy vision and the darkened sky. "Arthur?"

"Did I not tell you to not get shot?" He kneeled down and Francis gave a small one-shoulder shrug, wincing at the pain in his side.

"I was told it missed my kidneys," Francis said slowly. His mouth felt cottony and still he took quick shallow breaths.

Arthur's vivid green eyes darted down and he nodded. There was siren in the distance. Francis looked back up to look into Arthur's eyes. It was as if the world had been sucked of all its color and all that was left was the green in Arthur's irises.

"Bullocks. Didn't I tell you to at least make it to an hour before croaking on me!" He missed how Arthur's hands darted back and forth as though not sure what to do.

"I made it to sixty one minutes, didn't I?"

"No you fucker, you only made it to fifty nine."

"Oh."

"So you can't die."

"_D'accord_."

Arthur grabbed his sweater and looked at Francis square in the eye. "No. Dying. Got it?"

"Oui," Francis murmured. English seemed to be too hard to think of. "_Ne meurent pas. D'accord. Je comprends_._"_ The sirens were definitely louder now.

"Arthur?" Francis murmured, feeling tired and lethargic.

"Yeah?"

"I think I ruined Elizaveta's sweater." And then he fell asleep, the world fading to a black fog where nothing mattered but green eyes looking on with obvious concern.

* * *

When Francis woke up once again, surfacing slowly from the haze of a drugged sleep, he was blinded by the bright florescent lighting and failed to notice for some time that there was another person in the room with him. He glanced over, blinking slowly and gave a small smile. In return he got a lazy wave.

Arthur was straddling the plastic chair in the waiting room, arms crossed and resting on the headrest. Green eyes seemed calm, unlike the constant forest fire that usually blazed behind his irises. Arthur put his cheek in his palm and snorted. "Turns out you're fine."

Francis tilted his head slightly, veil of sleep finally lifting. He drummed his fingers once, glancing at the IV taped into his arm. "Well that's good."

"Guess you're just a pussy when it comes to wounds, fainting from shock and blood loss." Arthur rolled his right shoulder. "You bloody suck at following directions too."

"Anything else you want to add to the list 'Things Francis is Bad At'?" He asked wryly, voice fading as he strained to sit up. He finally got into a more comfortable position and focused back on Arthur's face.

"Nah," furrowing one hand through his hair, he gave a wolfish smile. "Just something for me to keep track of in the future. Sucks at getting shot at. Check."

"Not the worse thing in the world to be bad at."

"No. But I sure as hell don't want you leading me into any fray in the future. I'll make sure to keep you nice and safe somewhere at home."

Francis hummed, giving a lopsided smile before looking about the room. He had made no indication that Arthur's use of the future tense had been acknowledged. In truth, there was a tiny little twinge of hope starting to flutter in his chest. After all, it had taken Francis to be shot to realize he liked Arthur.

But what wasn't there to like? Arthur was, physically, attractive. He was shorter, yes, but that didn't stop him from being one of the more handsome men he had met in New York. And there was _life_ in his eyes. There was a spirit there that in other people the city tended to destroy and grind into the grime covered streets. Arthur was alive. Arthur was what he was. Arthur glared at life and told it to shove it.

_ Merde_.

This was more than like, wasn't it?

Francis thought about this, then glanced around the powder blue room to avoid Arthur's gaze. There was a problem though. Arthur was taken. He sighed, passed it off as a hiss for his side and smiled. "It sounded like you were well received at the bar. You must have been a hit."

Arthur's smile fluttered before coming back. "Yes, it was. It was brilliant to have a full house."

Francis turned his blue eyes down to his hand, lying across his lap now. The unspoken words of, _you were great_ rested on the tip of his tongue, beating against his teeth to be released. Then they died a cold death as the ring of a cell phone went off. The Frenchman watched Arthur pat down his pockets before pulling out a disposable cell phone.

The Englishman shrugged at Francis' look and flipped the black phone open. "Hello?" There was a moment of silence as the person on the other line spoke. Arthur's face darkened for a moment, lips pressing together in a thin line. Green eyes darted to the small window on the far wall, and he gripped the chair. "Yeah. No, I said I'd be there." His lips quirked again and he growled. "Fuck off. I said I'd be there." He then snapped the phone shut and the hospital plunged into a thick and heavy silence.

Touching the edges of the bedding, Francis rolled his tongue over the points of his teeth. "Arthur, I think I need to talk to you."

One massive brow launched upwards in disbelief. "And what would that be?"

"You and Ivan." Because he wanted Arthur safe and happy, Francis thought to himself.

At the name Ivan, Arthur's face darkened. Green eyes became a dark forest green. He parted his lips to speak, no doubt something caustic and Francis held up one weak hand. "_S'il te plait_, Arthur. Let me speak." He clasped his fingers together, dragging his thoughts together. He looked away to the corner of the room, unable to look at Arthur directly. "You're a good…friend…," he started off awkwardly, "And I know that I know very little of you aside from what you've shown and told me, but I think you need to re-think you're relation ship with Ivan."

Arthur was still silent, but Francis was sure if he glanced over there would be a very angry scowl on his face. His fingers would probably be twitching towards closing into a fist. "But look, as I said before, it is not healthy for him to be obsessive over you, to be following your every move. And pining you against the wall of an alley… Arthur you are stubborn, but surely you must see that this is neither a strong nor a healthy relationship.

"I think you need to consider placing distance between you and him."

There was a pause, filled with stagnant and awkward silence. Francis finally took his eyes away from the corner of the room to see, much to his surprise, that Arthur was not glaring at him with a look of vehemence, nor did it seem he was about to leap over the hospital bed and punch him. Arthur had his head tilted, as though he were staring at something far more amusing than he was letting on. Both his massive brows were jutted up, looking both amused and surprised. He was drumming against the back of the chair slowly.

"Done preaching to me yet, frog?"

"Ah," Francis cleared his throat. "Yes."

Arthur stretched his arm, looking thoughtful. "First of all, fuck off since that's my personal business. Second, it's not needed. Third, That was Antonia. Fourth, we've already split."

Francis looked up bewildered. "What?"

Arthur folded his arms. "You've been out for about a day and a half. The Vargas said it would be best if someone was by your bedside to make sure you didn't get shot."

"So you're my bodyguard?"

"Like I haven't been this whole bloody time?"

"True."

Arthur's eyes flashed in amusement, before darkening in thought. "Anyway, Ivan made a ruckus," he snorted. "As if I could jump you in a hospital bed." Francis' cheeks reddened slightly as Arthur continued, "Anyway. We had a row in the parking lot and other than us beating the piss out of each other, I gave him an ultimatum." He shrugged, rolling his neck. "We decided to have a breather from each other."

"Oh." Francis said again.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it."

When Francis glanced up, Arthur was looking away to the ceiling, arms folded. "So?" Arthur muttered.

Francis smiled hesitatingly, wondering if he was reading the other man right. He finally turned to the Englishman while pulling his tattered courage together "Do I acknowledge that something is there then?" He paused and gestured vaguely with his hands. "Between us?"

"Yes you do."

"Ah."

They both looked awkwardly at each other, Francis scratching his nose not knowing what to say next and Arthur drumming slowly on the chair. Finally after a minute had slowly trudged by, Arthur scowled and stood up. He stretched his back, staring down Francis with his fiery green eyes. He took a step forward, seeming to contemplate something before leaning over the bed rail.

"I'm going to kiss you."

"_D'accord_."

Arthur's lips were chapped, but surprisingly both chaste and gentle. Francis watched as Arthur pulled back, seeing a light red dusting on his cheeks and chuckled tiredly. He hummed, "You're much more brazen when drunk, but definitely better at kissing when sober."

"What?"

Francis just smiled and shut his eyes to fall back asleep despite the spluttering of the man above him.

* * *

And so! The last chapter is next. I hope you all have enjoyed the story. Because I must now take care of a sick said roommate, this will be short.

_Id like to to take this space to thank all my reviewers, because reviews are pure epic win._

**PrussianAwesomeness, Ceri Siracha, and Marinoa**_. _

_Thank you all for reading!_


	10. A Family

And so here is the final chapter to Motor Oil and Six Strings. I hope you have had as much fun reading this as I have (for the most part) loved writing it. I want to thank you all for reading the story and leaving such beautiful reviews. I hope you are all well, and without further ado, here is the last chapter.

_Chris

**

* * *

Motor Oil and Six Strings**

–Part Ten–

Epilogue

_In which our tale comes to an end_

"And so they lived happily ever after. The End."

Francis smiled and watched the expressions of the two older children sitting on his lap and the floor, blue eyes wide. He watched as the quieter of the two, his son Matthew, look to the ground and tug on Francis' sock. His other son was still staring at him, but it was with a skeptical look as if he really couldn't believe what was being said.

"Is the story true?" Matthew asked, looking up to Francis while pulling on his forever present stuffed bear.

"Of course it's not true," The other child muttered. Francis watched Alfred jump up off the floor and start to walk towards the den where they had been playing earlier. "It's a story, they're not true."

"Oh," Matthew mumbled and watched his brother walk away. Finally he turned to his father and tugged on his sleeve, making Francis turn away from watching Alfred turn on his Nintendo DS. "Papa, was the story true?"

Francis put a hand gently on his son's head and shrugged. "I suppose it depends on what you think, _oui_?" He picked Matthew up from his lap, which was feeling cramped from sitting on the floor for so long and placed him on the floor next to him.

"I guess." Matthew stood up, brushing off his shorts before walking over to where Alfred was, glancing at the game before grabbing the book he had been reading.

"Oh come on, Mattie. Like dad could have ever been that awesome? All he does is talk about tea and embroidery. No way he could have taken down bad guys like superman."

Francis kept his mouth shut at the relative term, "bad"—after all, Arthur had still been in a mafia. "Clark Kent was nothing amazing either," Francis reminded his children. He chuckled, watching Alfred furrow his brows, and then stood up, stretching his back and long lithe legs before walking to the kitchen. Arthur was supposed to be back soon and he planned on making sure that dinner was well on its way. He had taken Elizaveta's warning about Arthur's cooking to heart. "What do you want for dinner?"

Squabbling could be heard between the two brothers as they tried to convince each other what to eat. He poked his head out from the doorway when their voices grew louder and finally called, "Macaroni and cheese or mushroom risotto?" Both finally called, 'Mac and Cheese' predictably.

Francis grabbed the cheese and mushrooms out of the refrigerator and placed them on the counter, preparing to make the food for their dinner tonight. He was in the middle of sautéing the Arborio rice for the risotto and dicing the mushrooms when he heard bare feet patter into the kitchen. He glanced down to see Matthew looking on in curiosity before their eyes met. Francis returned too thinly cutting the mushrooms up and Matthew continued to watch the food being prepared from a safe distance away.

"Don't people who get shot die?" Matthew finally voiced as he grabbed the stool from the other counter. He was still holding his bear and he looked confused.

"Not everyone," Francis explained, tossing thin mushroom pieces into the roux of the Mac and Cheese. He wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder looking thoughtfully at the pots while he stirred. "Some people get a second chance and survive." Finally he pulled his ocean blue eyes away from the stove and to Matthew. The eleven year old was chewing on his lip, drawing invisible designs on the counter nearby.

"Was dad really in a gang, papa?"

Francis hummed and added chicken stock to the risotto. "Not when I knew him," he admitted and began to add both the milk and cheese to the sauce for the Mac and Cheese.

"So is that how you met Uncle Antonio and Aunt Lilli?" Matthew asked and hopped down from the stool.

"_Oui_." He handed off the spoon to the risotto to Matthew who continued to stir. "But you also remember Gilbert. He used to babysit you two when you were younger." Francis frowned and watched the cheese thicken.

"He did?" Matthew paused in the stirring and looked up in confusion. "What happened?"

Francis made a motion to keep stirring and slowly poured in more chicken stock. "He lives in Florida now."

There was a click at the front door and both Matthew and Francis looked to the doorway as it opened. Arthur came in, setting down his briefcase stuffed to the brim with student's essays. He pulled off his shoes and Matthew called, "Welcome home!"

Alfred's voice floated in from the den, "Hey dad!"

Francis watched Arthur rub a hand through his hair, giving a smile to their slightly younger son. "Hello Matthew. Have a good day at school?"

"Yes."

Francis nudged him slightly and took the spoon back. "Go get your brother to set the table."

"_D'accord_." Matthew called as he began to walk to the living room den.

Arthur came over to where Francis was standing and gave him a kiss to the cheek. Francis hummed and smiled, but kept his gaze on the two different pots. "How was work?" Francis called as Arthur pulled off his suit jacket.

"I swear universities are lowering their standards these days. How could you not know the difference between Bronte and Austen?" Arthur grumbled and then rolled his shoulders. Leaning against the counter, he watched Francis cook for a few minutes before lowering his voice, "Liviana's dead."

Halting in cooking, Francis blinked at the pasta he was about to pour into the cheese sauce and stared at Arthur. "What?"

Arthur shook his head and passed a hand through his tufted sandy hair. "She was shot the other night by her husband, Marcus Moretti. Twice in the head, once in the heart."

Francis blinked again and lowered the heat as he slowly added the pasta. He didn't say anything until the pasta was coated and then stirred the risotto. "I would imagine the De Luca aren't happy about that."

"No. Antonio said that they're out for blood. I'm sure we'll hear of Moretti just disappearing soon. And half of whatever family he was affiliated with." Arthur's green eyes were dark in thought and finally he sighed. "Guess that means they won't be looking for you anymore. No need to keep that gun under the flour anymore." Arthur chuckled and then went back to the small table in the kitchen to retrieve his paper work. Francis was still quiet though as he processed the news. He didn't like Liviana, she had been cold and had tried to kill him, but he had never really wanted her dead. The news left a bitter taste in his mouth and he walked over to the sink to wash his hands.

Alfred suddenly came in, bright blue eyes looking even larger with his new glasses. "Did you really use to ride a motorcycle?"

"What?" Arthur asked, looking up from a pile of papers in his hands. He looked bewildered for a minute before glancing at Francis. "Where did you hear that?"

"Papa said so." Alfred rubbed his hand on his jeans and shrugged.

"Did he." Arthur raised a brow and Francis shrugged.

"I was telling them the story of how we met."

"Which is way different from your version dad. Way cooler than meeting at a restaurant, even if it isn't true," Alfred huffed.

"And why would you think it wasn't true?"

Alfred looked as if Arthur was asking why the sky wasn't orange. "Because, there's no way you were that cool dad." He reached up and grabbed some plates from the cabinets, missing Francis' hidden smirk and Arthur's obvious frown "I mean I know you used to be in a band, but it was probably old people songs.

When Alfred left, Francis leaned over and gave Arthur a peck on the cheek. Arthur kept his arms folded and growled. Laughing quietly, the Frenchman then returned to keeping track of the risotto. "When they're older I'll tell them the whole story."

"And what did you tell them now?" Arthur pulled a spoon out from the drawer and tasted the Mac and Cheese.

"That you were in a band and used to be in the good Mafia, don't give me that look—they're eleven, and that you saved me from the evil mafia." Francis paused and poured some pepper into the risotto. "Basically."

"Ah." Arthur then returned the papers in his hand to the table. He looked at the floor for a moment and walked back to the Frenchman's side, wrapping a hand around his waist that came to a stop over the spot Francis had once been shot. "I'm glad things have calmed down, but you don't think I'm a bore, do you?"

Francis quirked a brow, his eyes alight in amusement. He them took the risotto spoon and pointed it at Arthur. "Hm. I'll have to think about that…though I would never say you're a bore when in comes to the bedroom." When Arthur's face turned a light red, he chuckled once again and wrapped a hand around his backside, pulling him close.

"Woah! PDA! PDA! Dude, you guys are gross." Alfred muttered as he walked back into the kitchen with Matthew. Arthur tried to pull away but Francis kept a strong hold on him and looked over his shoulder. "Did you get the silverware and glasses?"

"Not yet," Matthew said and went to the far cabinet to grab the glasses.

Alfred made a face and brushed past his parents to get the silverware. The sound of the clanking glass and silverware brought Francis' attention back to the food and he stirred the mushrooms and rice. Once their children had left to tend the table, Francis turned back to Arthur. "I can't believe Liviana is dead." He turned down the heat of the food and went to grab a ceramic bowl. Arthur's calm green eyes were following his movements through the kitchen. "I mean, how do you feel when your ex-fiancée is dead?"

"The same way you feel when you find out your ex is serving a life sentence for first degree murder." Arthur slid his socked foot across the tile surface of the kitchen floor to try and remove a scuffmark. "Surprised, a little sad. Confused. But then you move on because they aren't part of your life anymore for a reason."

Francis poured the risotto into a ceramic dish; it was yellow with blue flowers on it. "We would have had shitty lives if we hadn't met, _non_?"

"Probably." Arthur then grabbed the dish from him and began to walk towards the dining room table. "But I don't believe in fate."

"_Non_?"

"No." He paused at the doorway and gave a wolfish smile. "I like to do things my way. And everyone else can get out of the fucking way."

Francis laughed and gabbed some serving spoons as Arthur walked through the doorway.

* * *

The night went on as usual from that point. The two brothers bickered until Arthur threatened to ground them if they didn't quiet down. Both parents ignored the fact that they simply moved on to kicking each other's shins under the table. Alfred reported on how he had gotten an A on his science test and Matthew muttered something about having hockey tryouts in a few weeks. Francis had nothing to report to the family dinner other than the bakery he worked at seemed to be getting more popular.

Dishes were washed and since both boys had finished their homework, Francis and Arthur turned on the television to watch the ending of Harry Potter. Francis sat on the couch next to Matthew and Alfred, pulling up a tattered blue quilt around them. Arthur sat in a leather chair next to the couch, working on a Victorian embroidery pattern. It was something he did to ignore the cravings to smoke. Francis then told Alfred and Matthew to get ready for bed at nine and they headed upstairs.

Arthur would check up on their sons, Matthew on the top bunk and Alfred on the bottom due to his habit of sleepwalking, before shutting off the lights and closing the door. And around eleven they would both head upstairs to their bedroom and get ready for bed and the next day.

Francis crawled into bed after Arthur, pausing to lean over him and kiss him. "I love you," he would say every night and kiss Arthur again. Arthur would smile into the kiss and pull him down atop him, their chest pressing close against one another.

"I love you too," Arthur would reply, and held onto him tightly as they fell asleep.

* * *

The End

I hope you enjoyed and once again I thank you all for reading.

So here are a few notes for anyone who is interested. The story was actually built around this whole final scene, with Francis telling their children about how they met and Matthew and Alfred not believing him. Lets be honest, none of us tend to think of our parents as epic back in the day. Arthur's personality was based off of what I'd like to think is ModernPirate!UK, to which I had so much fun writing. Muwahaha.

So once again, THANK YOU ALL FOR READING

To my dear reviewers, thank you. You are all epic.

_Ceri Siracha, Elysia, alugien22792, marinoa, frigidgrl5, mudkiprox,_ and_ moonfleur_


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